


The Switch's Tale

by largerthanlifeus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Attempted Rape, Dumbledore is a transphobic asshole, Harry Potter AU, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Magical transitioning, Only somewhat cannon compliant, Other, Seventh Year AU, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Voldemort is dead, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largerthanlifeus/pseuds/largerthanlifeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy was heartily sick of seeing the inside of the girl's dormitory. The beds, the floors, the comforters, pillows, and wardrobes--they looked exactly as the ones in the boy's rooms did, but he was sick of them all the same. Something in the air--the parts that didn't smell of familiar wet earth and heavy stone--was different. Years upon years of girls adding their own scent and magic to the place meant that it would never feel quite right to Draco. For all that nearly every single one of his male classmates would sell their brooms to be in his current position, Draco wanted nothing more than to scream.</p><p>Unfortunately Malfoys didn't get the luxury of temper tantrums. Not anymore, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiding

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things before I get to the story. For the most part I am going to let the fic tell the story, but there are a few things that will help you get oriented. 
> 
> 1) There is no Voldemort in this story, despite the fic taking place during Draco and Harry's 7th year. In this universe there were no Horcruxes, so when Harry beat Voldemort as a baby, he well and truly killed him.
> 
> 2) Because of this some things that happened in the books never happened in this universe (i.e. the events tied to the Sorcerer's Stone). But also some things do--but with small twists (Sirius was killed by Bellatrix, but not in the Ministry or in relation to the prophesy) If they impact the story I will try to make sure that it is clear in story.
> 
> 3) All trans people experience there gender in different ways so Draco is not some type of all encompassing example of who trans people are. He is part me, part himself, and part other queer people I know. I'm not going to go thru everything about him and his life, but hopefully he comes thru clearly as I can make him.
> 
> [All further Author Notes will be in the comments sections]

Draco Malfoy was heartily sick of seeing the inside of the girl's dormitory. The beds, the floors, the comforters, pillows, and wardrobes--they looked exactly as the ones in the boy's rooms did, but he was sick of them all the same. Something in the air--the parts that didn't smell of familiar wet earth and heavy stone--was different. Years upon years of girls adding their own scent and magic to the place meant that it would never feel quite right to Draco. For all that nearly every single one of his male classmates would sell their brooms to be in his current position, Draco wanted nothing more than to scream.

Unfortunately Malfoys didn't get the luxury of temper tantrums. Not anymore, at least.

He still felt gut wrenching embarrassment any time he even thought of the words Harry Potter and...well, almost _anything_ , in the same sentence. After last year it was a miracle that his father even spoke to him. Draco being almost expelled two weeks before the end of his sixth year tended to make his father rather pissed in a way that only Malfoys can pull off: silent, cold, and with a glare that could cut deeper than bone.

Turned out trying to resurrect a banned Slytherin Dark Arts club without any proper permission (not that the Headmaster would have given permission for so much as a knitting club) was not his brightest of plans. His father had been livid, his mother had moved to France (Draco tried to believe this had more to do with the divorce, than anything _he'd_ done), the Headmaster acted like Darco'd been trying to resurrect bloody You-Know-Who, and Harry Potter had spent the year stalking him thru the corridors. Which was, not that he'd ever tell anyone, the reason he didn't stop the whole thing when it became pretty fucking obvious that it was a bad idea. Having Potter following _him_ around--for once--had been thrilling. Knowing that he'd be watching his every move made Draco take more than one badly judged risk.

It'd been entirely un-Slytherin, entirely un- _Malfoy_ , and embarrassing as fuck when dragged before the Headmaster to account for himself; even he knew the "it turned me on to have the Savior of the Wizarding World haunting my every waking step" was not going to be an acceptable answer. Not that he'd ever admit to it. As it was, it took all of his father's (considerably tarnished) influence to keep him at Hogwarts _without_ the damning knowledge that he'd like to get in Potter's pants coming to light.

His seventh, and last, year was supposed to be different. At least so he told himself. But really, who did he think he was kidding? Maybe if he'd not bollocksed up last year he'd of stood a chance of convincing the Headmaster and governors to put him in the right dorms. Draco wasted all his good will on the sixth year fiasco, and now it was time to pay. That didn't make the seventh year girl's dorms less annoying, just inevitably claustrophobic.

Draco scratched at the short hairs just above his neck. Even months later the close-cropped cut of his hair felt unexpected. Sometimes he found himself running his hands over it, letting the stubbly feel of the hairs brush against his fingers. It felt comforting in a way pulling his hair up into a twist never did. Maybe it was the lack of weight, the lightheaded feel of it. Mabye it was the daily reminder that he’d actually done it, actually proved all the mocking voices in his head wrong. Whatever it was, the smooth scrape of it against his palm was soothing.

If seventh year was going to go according to the last few days, he knew he was going to need it.

“You decent over there, freak?” 

Draco turned his head from his contemplation of all things Unfair and Unjust in the World, and over to the fog-like curtain that hung between his bed and the rest of the girl’s dorm room. He could barely make out Pansy’s outline thru the silver mist, but even if a lifetime of bickering and hair-pulling hadn’t made sure that he’d know his best friend’s voice anywhere, that silhouette would have given her away. Who knew one’s hips could be so snarky?

Draco lifted himself up on one elbow, the soft covers hissing lightly under his movements. “Call me a freak again, Pans, and I’m gonna curse your knickers off.”

“From what I hear you now have something decent to offer, so I might just let you,” Pansy said as she pushed her way thru the curtain. He hair frizzed up momentarily, but then slipped back down flat. She leered at him thoughtfully. “Plus, I won’t have to draw _you_ a bloody map, so it seems like a win win for me.”

“What, Knott not doing it for you anymore?”

“I doubt Knott is doing it for anyone, himself included.” Pansy flopped--gracefully--onto the bed beside Draco. She pushed at the mattress suspiciously. “Why is your bed always more comfortable than mine?”

He raised his nose superiorly. “I’m a Malfoy. Everything we have is better.”

“You bribe the house elves, don’t you.”

Draco smirked.

“Bitch,” she said with a jab to his ribs. Damn her pointy elbows.

He rolled over, turning to face her. She hadn’t changed much in the few months that they had been apart over the break. Not nearly as much as he did, anyways. There was something about her that felt different, though. Or maybe it was that he felt different on such a basic level that everything around him had yet to align to the new normal. It could just be that she’d grown a few inches over the hols, though. Usually they spent the whole summer in each other’s pockets so such things would hardly even register, but he hadn’t had very many visitors to the manor since the end of June. 

The two weeks right after taking the first potion were hellish. He barely let anyone but Severus and his manor’s house elf see him. If Severus hadn’t been absolutely necessary, Draco would have banned the man from his rooms as well. Even after the worst of the pain had let off he’d been reluctant to see anyone. He felt clumsy and off balance. His Malfoy sensibilities demanded that he stay hidden till he could at least pretend to calm superiority. It had taken a few months, but he had pushed himself till he could board the train to Hogwarts with his head held high--and with a muffling charm wrapped around his ears to block out all the stunned whispers that followed him from the second he had stepped foot onto the platform in trousers instead of a skirt.

He was not looking forward to the second potion Severus would be giving him in a couple weeks time. The potion master had assured him that the first and third doses were always the worst, but the stretchy-burning sensation that had sunk into his bones and not let up for weeks had left him a bit wand-shy. 

Draco was blatantly going to ignore all that till the last possible moment, though. He had too many bludgers in the air as it was. 

He leaned over and swept an errant lock of hair out of Pansy eyes. “What’s the word in the Underworld?”

Pansy, collector of all things you never wanted found out, had always been his spymaster. She traded secrets and stories like his great-aunt traded cursed coffee pots. With glee and always for her own favor and your own downfall. Draco had only had to trade his undying friendship and loyalty at the tender age of five to get access to her already scary breadth of knowledge about the various pure-blood families in their circle. It was probably the single best thing he had ever done.

Top three at least.

Draco had been avoiding people, even his own house, since the start of term and he was woefully under-informed about everything. He could only pull off his mysterious withdrawal from school society for a bit longer. Soon he was going to need to make a return, and if he didn’t know where he stood he wouldn’t know how to maneuver thru the curse-traps and backstabbing inevitably coming his way. Draco needed to know how Hogwarts was moving, but more importantly he needed to know where the Slytherins were falling around him.

The Gryffindors would always hate him, the Ravenclaws would always study him, the Hufflepuffs would probably just ignore it till being forced into the drama against their will, but the Slytherins...they were a tricky bunch. Slytherins could stand united with him against all the houses and then happily slip a dagger between his ribs once the common room doors closed behind him. Not that any of them would ever lower themselves to actual bloodshed. There were cleaner, easier, and more painful ways to make your enemies pay.

Draco flinched from the sharp, quick pain in his arm. 

“Pay attention!” Pansy whispered.

Draco rubbed his arm. “Sorry.”

“I’ve not got all night, you know. Binns has us writing 18 inches, and I could be getting that done instead of watching you day dream. Your masculine wiles don’t make it any more interesting than when you did it with uneven tits.”

“My tits were _fabulous_ ,” Draco snarked back. 

“ _Were_ being the operative word there, love. You don’t got them anymore, time to stop lying to yourself.”

“I will beat you to death with my pillow.”

“Not if you want to know how the snakes are moving.”

He glared at her, but relented. “Fine.”

Pansy just waved away his rather pathetic non-apology before repeating what Draco had no doubt missed before she pinched him back to attention. 

“There seem to be three camps right now. Pretty obvious really. There are those who don’t give a fuck, or just don’t want to show they give a fuck, in the middle. To either side of them are those who are in support of you or those who think you have lost your mind and are in need of a good hexing. 

“The firsties don’t know you, and other than enjoying the show, they seem to fall in the middle camp. They’ll be watching to see where the upper years fall before they even think of making a move. Second years are ruled over by Katerina Sloope and she has a much beloved aunt who is a Switch so they are either enthusiastically supporting you or keeping to the middle ground. That girl is almost Ravenclaw in her knowledge of grey hexs and I wouldn’t be surprised if even the third years keep out of her way. Fourth year boys and fifth year girls seem to be your biggest problems. The fourth year girls are mostly neutral. The fifth year boys seem surprisingly fine with your new look. I think Atticus might be the reason for that, but that group is surprisingly tight lipped about what goes on in their dorm. Sixth years are...well, about as predictably as a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans. If you offer to tutor Corral and maybe Basil with transfiguration you might be able to swing them around. I’d watch out for the twins, though. They tend to leave the room whenever you enter and I don’t like the way they’ve been whispering in corners. They might do nothing--taking on Professor Snape’s godson is a pretty big risk--but I’m having them followed. If they plan to move I should know it almost before they do.”

Draco flopped down onto the bed. “Merlin. I’m not going to be able to sleep for the whole year, am I?”

“It is not _quite_ that bad,” Pansy hedged. “You seem to have more supporters than enemies. And the neutrals will more than likely swing your way or at least stay out of it. Outside these walls we are still a united front, but you will have to be careful in the common areas for a bit. Think of it as practice from when you graduate.”

He looked over at her. She seemed truthful at least. Whether it was The Truth, he didn’t know. “That still leaves us. How is everyone here taking it?”

“It...well, it would have been better if we had some warning,” she said. “You showing up as Draco when everyone was expecting Lyn was a shock. Slytherins don’t like surprises--at least ones they have not planned themselves. You just showing up sans tits and all butch as fuck--”

Draco snorted. There were many ways to describe his new body, but _butch_ was not nor would ever be one of them. He couldn’t even get a damned beard to grow. 

“--going all, ‘I’m Draco now! Let me show you my cock!’--”

Draco was probably the one of the few people who would hear the hurt under her flippant sarcasm. Not telling anyone had probably been a mistake, but not telling Pansy was going to come back to hex him, no doubt about it. 

“Pans, I’m--” he started to say.

“No. No. You are going to let me finish,” she said in a low, sweetly violent voice. “I am your best friend. I get to know these things. I get to know these things before the rest of the bloody world knows these things because I have to know how to protect you, you git. We could have had this whole thing handled by the start of term if you had let me know months ago. Now we are stuck scrambling, trying to secure our position in Slytherin, when we should be out there manipulating the other houses. I don’t care if you want to go by Draco, or Lyn, or Merlin’s Ruddy Ballsack--you will not keep me in the dark ever again! _Do. You. Understand?_ ”

Draco swallowed his reply and just nodded. Vigorously. The privacy charm in the curtain between them and the rest of the room kept their conversation private, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the others had beat a hasty retreat from the sheer anger that was bubbling out of Pansy and sitting heavy in the air. 

Pansy looked at him, staring him down till he was two seconds from shielding his newly gained balls from her no doubt painful vengeance. Then she blinked, nodded, and laid back down on the bed.

The quiet of the room slowly leveled out the tension that had grown between them. It had always been like this. They would fight. He would apologize. Pansy would go back to lording her magnificence over everything and everyone. If he was at all inclined towards girls he would have begged her for a betrothal contract. She would have made the perfect Lady Malfoy that his parents had always wanted out of him.

As it was, it was highly unlikely that there would be a Lady Malfoy to grace the manor again any time soon. Whether that was a good thing or not was yet to be seen.

There were more pressing matters, though. But as he cuddled up to his best friend--enjoying the now perfect ratio of squishy bits to non-squishy bits--he thought that those could be ignored for maybe a bit more time. Not much longer, but enough to fortify him for the battles yet ahead. 

Plus, they still had to write those damn 18 inches for Binns. Whatever had possessed him to take N.E.W.T.S in history of magic, he will never figure out.

“Stop squirming, Draco,” Pansy said with a huff. “I’m plotting.”


	2. The Taste of Apples

Pansy amidst plot was a dangerous thing. If you didn’t believe it, there was a whole gaggle of third year Ravenclaws that could (shudderingly) attest to it. Draco had learned early on to leave his best friend to her plots and hope that in the end he was not the one being turned into soggy furniture for ‘thinking too loudly.’ Three chairs and a slightly dumpy couch bursting into tears was a sight very few in the library that day would ever forget. 

Luckily for him, Draco knew better than to disturb Pansy as she plotted away (or napped, but he wasn’t about to check) on his bed while he scratched out mindless dribble about how the length (14 feet 7 inches) of Geerbert the Grumpy’s sword stunned his enemies and allowed him to kill them all in one fell bloody swoop. Draco thought that a wand would have been more practical--and less ridiculous looking--but long-dead wizards had yet to consult him about such things. 

The ink was just drying under a whispered drying charm when Pansy blinked her eyes open and rolled off his bed without a word. She waved at him halfheartedly before she vanished thru the curtain. 

Clearly her plotting was done for the night. Or she didn’t want to be caught sleeping the night away in his bed. Not that it would be the first time, but despite what the Headmaster and various People of Importance seemed to think, things were different now. He liked that Pansy would acknowledge that without even having to say a word. 

Draco rolled up the essay and stored it away for class tomorrow. With a quick change of clothes he was ready for bed. As he pulled the comforter--still warm from Pansy’s body heat--up over his shoulder he let himself hope for just a minute that tomorrow would be better than the last week. 

He’d say it couldn’t possibly get worse, but Malfoys had learned not to tempt fate like that.

****

Draco was eyeing the last piece of toast when Pansy dropped an armful of books by his plate. The Hall was only a quarter full of sleepy students so the loud thump of the books hitting the wood reverberated thru the whole room. One table over a first or second year Gryffindor jerked awake, his juice spilling out over the table from where his elbow had collided with the cup. Everyone just watched as he panickedly tried to stem the flow with his napkin before a fourth year pulled out her wand and waved away the mess. Excitement clearly over, the Hall went back to murmured conversations peppered with soft snores. 

Pansy stole the toast out from under Draco’s fingers. Draco grabbed an apple out of the bowl next to the now empty platter like that had been his plan all along.

The apple tasted of defeat. And apples.

Draco had never liked the taste of either.

Pansy grinned around her toast then opened the top book from the stack to retrieve a slip of paper. She thrust it at him without so much as a “I’m a horrible witch of a friend and you deserve all the adulation in the world for putting up with me.”

While she ate her pilfered breakfast, Draco read. Then he swore.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he said in awe. “How did you get all this?”

“It wasn’t hard,” she said. “People like to talk to me.”

“You mean people are so afraid of you they'll tell you anything so you’ll go away before they are hexed into an ottoman.”

Pansy threw a bread crust at him. “It was one time! Will you ever let that go?”

“They were _crying_ , Pans.” Draco dusted off crumbs from his nose. “The _chairs_ were _crying_. One does not forget that kind of thing.”

“You should.” Pansy said it like a threat.

Wisely Draco went back to studying the list. Even on second reading it was impressive. Anyone who was _anyone_ (including a few that didn’t even know it themselves) in Slytherin was on the list. Below each name was a list of strengths, weaknesses, alliances, and enemies. It was not a list that was put together in one night. Not even a few months. Pansy must have been working on this for years. The students in the first two years had the least about them, but what was there was still bloody scary. Why Pansy listed that Desdemona Finley was allergic to the sap from a Silver Maple--with a tightly scrawled notation next to it on just where to procure both the tree and the distilled sap--he shuddered to think.

And yet… 

The Slytherin part of him was twisting in glee. If this was the the sum (and he had his doubts about that) of Pansy’s knowledge about their own house, just think of what she had on the others. And there would be lists for the other houses. Draco knew it like he knew that her favorite color was shade of blue that the waves became when slamming into the cliffs near her home in Dover. 

Pansy leaned over and tapped the name third from the top (Yewly Turner -- Sixth Year) with her wand. The rest of the writing on the page vanished and Turner’s named squiggled to the top of the page. Underneath, more writing appeared. Notes on his various classes, where he was most likely to be found alone in the halls, friends he was closest to. Down at the bottom, in Pansy’s tight scrawl, were half thought out plans of attack. 

It seemed Pansy had settled on their first step to conquering the school (and not the entire world possibly only because they had to fit in studying for their N.E.W.T.S. at some point). Though…

“I am _not_ sleeping with him,” Draco said with a shiver. 

Pansy looked as put upon as a girl with spoonful of oatmeal in her mouth could look. “It would be the easiest--”

“No. Nope. And not even if you promised to scrub the memory from my brain afterwards.” Yewly Turner had the look of an ox--and the smell of one as well. Draco wasn’t laying one finger on the teen even with dragonhide gloves on. “I’ll offer to give him some tips on fooling Trelawney, but that is as far I’m willing to go. We are trying to shore up my reputation, not roll it in cow dung.”

“Fine.” Her spoon slicing into her oatmeal looked painful. Draco could almost hear the grain crying out for mercy. “He won’t be free till after lunch. You can corner him on your way to Transfiguration. Just follow the list and everything should be fine.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy,” she said, pushing her now empty bowl towards the middle of the table. “As if I would ever lower myself to that. That is so obvious it’s practically obscene. I’d like to think I’m a bit more Slytherin than that half-blood idiot. Killed by a ruddy baby, he was. Some Dark Lord he turned out to be.”

She didn’t mention that both her parents had died in Azkaban because of the Dark Lord. Or that Draco’s father spent nearly eight years there himself before being let out. Pansy’s grandfather had a lot to say about the stupidity of following a Dark Lord to abject failure--and being caught at it. After watching his father slowly trying to piece himself back together over the years, Draco couldn’t say that he disagreed with much of what Pansy or her grandfather thought.

His own father never spoke on the subject, himself. Though being woken up with his father’s shrill screams echoing around the manor hallways was probably all Draco ever needed to hear of Lucius Malfoy’s opinions on following mad men to hell. 

And on that happy note… 

With a quick goodbye Draco rolled up Pansy’s paper, stuck it in his robes, and headed off to Ancient Runes. 

Sadly, Pansy had never been interested in runes enough to bother to take the elective at O.W.L. level, let alone go on to N.E.W.T.S., so he was all alone in the class. He was the sole Slytherin in there, but only Ravenclaw had any real presence. Both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff only had two students apiece in the class. That had been fine last year, but even a week into term and he was starting to feel a bit annoyed with the way everyone stared at him--everyone but the Professor, that was, who didn’t even bother to look at him at all.

It was no matter. Not like he needed Professor Dovell’s help to pass his N.E.W.T.S. anyways. 

Draco slipped into the classroom behind a pair of Ravenclaws. They didn’t even bother to look his way. He took his seat, middle of the room, right in front of Dovell’s eye-line when he was lecturing. No one said he was going to make it easy for the professor to ignore him. One of these days he was going to crack and Draco was going to enjoy staring the man down. 

It only bothered Draco that he didn’t know if the professor did it because he was uncomfortable with Draco, or if he was only doing it on the headmaster’s order. The former he could at least respect; the latter was just disheartening. Or infuriating. He wasn’t sure which.

No, he knew exactly how he felt about it. It was the same way he felt about anything that had to do with Headmaster Dumbledore. 

Dovell came sweeping in thru the door--though nowhere near as majestically as Professor Snape would have--exactly one minute before the scheduled start of class. He put a book on his desk, looked around the class--swiftly skipping over the middle of the room for some reason--and stood in silence, waiting for the students to come to order.

Once the room quieted--not that it had been very noisy to begin with since the class was two-thirds Ravenclaw--Dovell turned to his desk and picked up a stack of papers. Their essays that had been turned in at the beginning of term. 

“There has been marked improvement since your last term. Nice to see that the majority of you did not waste your holidays. Most of you--” He carefully did not look at Draco. “--are ready to move on to the this year’s curriculum If you have not received word otherwise on your returned papers please come up and get your list of assignments for the autumn term. You are free to leave and go use the resources in the library if you so choose. If I have found your work less than exemplary you will be redoing the the last assignment in here, with myself present to answer any questions you shall have.”

Nearly all the Ravenclaws started to put away their books and papers and quills, readying to leave to the library. One of the Hufflepuffs did as well. the others--besides Draco--were clearly not as confident that they had met Professor Dovell exacting standards. 

Draco was positive that whatever he had wrote--be it correct or not--would land him stuck in his seat till the professor had proved whatever point it was he had set out to make. 

The startling amount of red ink covering his paper--what had the professor done, slaughtered a Hippogriff over his essay?--did nothing to persuade him otherwise. And if that wasn’t enough, the harshly lettered **INADEQUATE, INCONCLUSIVE, AND BORDERING ON INEPT** scrawled over the last page put paid to it. 

No, Professor Dovell was not a fan of Draco Malfoy’s. Not at all.

Draco flipped open his book. If nothing else good came of this nightmare of a year, he was going to know the Ancient Runes curriculum backwards, forwards, and sideways by the time testing came around. 

Well, if the quaffle can’t seem to find the hoop, might as well focus on the snitch.

****

The halls in the upper levels of the castle were usually deserted around lunch time. Though there was no one point in which the students were all gathered to eat, it was habit to drift in and out of the areas closest to the Great Hall--if only to accost one’s friends on their way to or from class. Draco barely ate more than a handful of bites before Pansy had pushed him from the table and sent him to go ambush Turner.

Draco would have complained more, but there had been something decidedly off about the potatoes and he hadn’t much of an appetite left.

The corridor leading up to Trelawney’s tower classroom was a pain to get to--and it certainly would not be fun getting back down to Transfiguration from up here before Professor McGonagall got her knickers in a twist and gave him detention for being late--though that had to beat detentions for simply _breathing_ \--but Pansy would be Upset if he didn’t talk to Turner today, and he had enough to worry about without his best friend going at him. Now if Turner would just show up.

The paper in his hands was slightly crumpled by the time footsteps could be heard coming up the nearby stairway. Draco hastily pushed the parchment into his robes--if he lost it the furies would have nothing on Pansy--and turned to meet the coming students. Only to be disappointed. A pair of Hufflepuffs came around the corner and gave him a funny look. 

Well, he was lurking in corridors, he couldn’t really blame them. It didn’t stop him from shooting them a glare. They scurried past him and up towards Trelawney’s classroom.

Draco leant back against the brick wall.

This was the problem with Pansy’s schemes. He inevitably got stuck being the one looking like an idiot while she got to take all the glory when things ended up exactly as she planned. There was something to be said for knowing from an early age that the witch behind the throne was the one with all the perks and fewer of the curses aimed at their back.

Not that he had any ass-to-throne aspirations.

Three more groups or pairs of students made their way past him before Turner came around the corner. He was alone, which wasn’t all that surprising, but was good for Draco nonetheless. Having to deal with several different Slytherin personalities all at once required a bit of subtle handling. This way he and Turner could talk around each other without having to factor in the reactions of a third party. 

Draco straightened from his artful slouch against the wall, smoothing his robes down in a (calculatedly) careless gesture, and nodded to the other Slytherin. “Turner.”

Turner nodded back, after a second too long. “Malfoy.”

And this was the tricky part. Draco had to somehow offer his help without insinuating that Turner was in any way in need of said help. He had to do it so that it didn’t look like he was scouting for favors, while still getting Turner to owe him. The debt would be middling, but it should be enough to prevent Turner from moving against him without at least giving the courtesy of a warning.

A Gryffindor would just barge in with an offer, graceless and simple. It would be easier, but it would also be less fun. Part of what made a Slytherin a _Slytherin_ was the love of twisting words and twining deals that were never simple but always beautiful. 

Draco could not come out and just offer, so Draco did what his house did best: he told the truth.

A version of it, anyways.

“I need your help,” Draco said.

Turner looked rightly suspicious. “Sure ya do.”

“Look, Prof--” He stuttered to a stop, glanced carefully around the empty hall. “Let’s just say I got caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing and I need to get back into the good graces of a few of the Professors.”

All true, though all that had nothing to do with what he was asking. 

“And I’ma part of this how?” Turner said suspiciously.

“I need to show that I’m willing to help my fellow students or something equally ridiculous like that. And I’m bloody well not going to be doing it by helping some poncy Ravenclaws or a Gryffindork.” He didn’t mention Hufflepuff, because who wanted to spend free time with them unless under pain of expulsion? 

Turner crossed his arms over his chest. “Still don’t see how that’s anything to do with me, Malfoy.”

But Draco could see the softening of Turner’s shoulders, the way his eyes took on a more calculating gleam instead of a standoffish glare. He might not see why Draco was picking him, but if there was going to be an offer, he would probably be willing to hear it. After all, he’d be doing Draco a favor, and favors came in handy. He wasn’t an a Slytherin for nothing. 

“Well, you can clearly see that it will have to be Slytherin, because they are the only ones worth my time. And while I’m all for getting the M-- _a certain Professor_ off my back, I don’t have time to shepherd some first year thru the trials and tribulations of rudimentary wand waving. It’d be a waste of my time and hexing the little buggers when they inevitably got on my nerves would hardly help me.”

“But--” Turner prompted.

“But,” Malfoy agreed. “You are hardly a spotty firstie and you also know the value of a favor owed.”

“And if I help you out, what’d I get outta it?”

“I might have in my possession a copy of a sixth year Divination text book, left behind--” or _stolen_ , but why split broom bristles? “by Henrietta Baggleston after she left school last year. It has all kinds of notes in the margin. I’m sure you could find a way to put it to good use.”

Henrietta Baggleston practically had Trelawney wrapped around her fingers since the day she first walked into Trelawney’s classroom. Draco didn’t know if she was the real deal, or if she just knew how to play Trelawney like a worn-in wand, but either way she had gotten the highest marks in Divination that the school had ever seen. A copy of her textbook had “fallen” into Draco’s hands, and while he had never taken much stock in the seer arts, he could see the barter value in owning a copy of her personalized textbook. 

Turner would see it too. Just give his poor malodorous head a moment to catch up, and Turner would play right into Draco’s hand.

Any second, now. Any sec--

And the crossed arms went down. Score one for Draco Malfoy...and probably three for Pansy, but who was keeping score?

“Well, let’s see it then,” Turner said. 

Draco scoffed. “Like I’d be carrying it around with me. I’ve got other things to do, you know. Plus, you might have felt a lot less inclined to hold your end up if it was already in your hands before the deal was struck. Possessions and potions, as they say, are only yours if you’re the one holding them. And I don’t let my things walk off unless I get something in return.”

“So’s when I’d get it?”

“Later, dinner probably. I need to retrieve it from...well, you don’t need to know where.” Draco held out his hand. “We have a deal then, Turner?”

Turner’s hand was about three inches from his when a loud noise--shortly preceding two bodies--barreled into the corridor. Both of the Slytherins turned, wands being pulled out from their sleeves. 

“Oi, look here, Harry,” Ronald Weasley practically shouted down the hall even though Potter was but a foot away from him. “Two snakes doing sneaky snakey things where they shouldn’t be.”

“Ah, Weasel, clearly the height of wit, as usual,” Draco said. He smiled, but didn’t return his wand to its sheath. Turner, beside him was getting a bit fidgety and Draco could just see his deal falling apart like a first year under Snape’s icy glare. “The owlery is in the other direction. I advise you use it to write home and have the rest of your brain owled back before your brothers use it in one of their potions experiments. Dunderhead Drops has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Watch it, you Swi--” Weasley growled before Draco pointed his wand at his head.

“Finish that sentence and I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it up your ass.” 

Weasley sneered at him. Harry stood there looking uncomfortable and vaguely suspicious. Of what, Draco had no clue. There were no evil plots (emphasis on the _evil_ ) being plotted there. 

Maybe Draco had a suspicious face. Potter seemed to have a hard time looking away from it.

It must be the cheekbones. Chick or dick his cheekbones were killer.

Feeling a bit silly being the only one still wand-armed, Draco casually slipped it back into his robes; he wanted them to see how little he saw them a threat. Even if he wanted to curse Weasley’s nose off so he would look just as stupid as he actually was. 

Potter, though. well Potter always had the annoying habit of making his stupid face more attractive than it deserved. It was the hair, Draco knew. Not even a charmed brush could fix it. It would take countless hours of painstaking handling (with his own hands, no doubt) to fix it.

Potter fidgeted, running his hands thru the damn stupid black locks like he could feel Draco’s wrath centered on them.

Beside him Turner cleared his throat. “Malfoy, we should prob'ly talk later 'bout the…”

“Yes, that is acceptable,” Draco said, turning to his right. He kept the two Gryffindors in his sights. He wasn’t an idiot.

It had nothing to do with not wanting to look away from Potter.

“Oh, look,” Weasley jeered. “The switchy witch has got a boyfriend.”

Turner turned red, Draco turned white, and Potter just looked confused at the Weasel’s taunt. Also angry--and didn't Draco find that interesting.

“Ron?” Harry said. He had drawn his wand at the sight of both Weasley's and Draco’s slipping easily into their hands. 

Draco hoped that Turner was House-loyal enough to back him up. He didn’t relish the thought of taking on both Potter and the fucking Weasel at the same time by himself. 

“One more word, blood-traitor, and I will hex your bollocks off and make you eat them.”

Weasley took a step forward. Draco did as well. They hardly needed to be closer to be in wand range of each other, but Draco wanted to see the son of a bastard whore’s eyes when he was cursed into oblivion.

“You won’t know this, Harry,” Weasley said conversationally like he wasn’t seconds away from being hexed. “But the best thing about a witch that’s a switch is that a switchy witch can catch her own sni--”

“ _Calvorio_.” Draco had about two seconds to bask in the confused look on Weasley's face as the first clump of red hair tumbled off his head and to the floor. He had about two seconds because by the third Potter had snapped to attention and sent a curse of his own at Draco. 

By the time their shouted curses were interrupted by the stern faces of several professors, Weasley had no hair left on his body, Draco had lost feeling in both his right leg and was sporting a rather impressive cut along his cheek, and Potter was bound still on the ground by someone’s reflected _Petrificus Totalus_. The only one left uninjured or unencumbered was Turner. Turner who was standing in front of Draco’s body like a giant wall of mean and ugly.

As they were marched off to their various Heads of House, Draco’s tongue feeling at the inside of his cheek where that last hex had made its mark, he smiled. He didn’t even have to give up the bloody book--though he would, because he was just that kind of guy--to get Turner to defend him. Even if it was just a Slytherin thing, it was a step in the right direction. The Slytherins needed to remember why the first thing they taught the firsties was “Slytherin or Nothing.” If they could not stand together, then they were at the mercy of the other houses. Merlin knew the Professors would hardly be on their side. Not with Dumbledore in charge.

When he and Turner were escorted into Snape’s office, to wait for the man himself to get done with his class and come inflict his wrath on them, Turner nodded to him silently. “One less red-head weasel, ya?”

“A very fetching new look.” Draco smirked. “He’ll be thanking me for it, just you see.”

For the first time since he stepped back in Hogwarts he could see things starting to line up. 

Victory was sweet…

And it tasted nothing of apples.


	3. Tell Me True

The door to McGonagall’s office clicked shut, pulling in a puff of the last bits of warm summer air into the room. A piece of parchment fluttered on McGonagall’s desk. Harry stared at the bit of paper while it teetered on the edge, holding his breath at it sat precariously on the fine line between resting and falling.

Unaware (or simply uncaring) of the parchments fate, Ron clomped over to the chairs set in front of the professor’s desk. He flung himself back into a seat. “This is bloody unfair. That bitch Malfoy was the one who started it. I mean, look what that... _that cunt_ did to me!”

Ron was pissed, and Harry couldn’t really blame him. His best friend looked ridiculous. Some guys, Harry was sure, could pull off the whole premature balding look, but Ron…

Ron looked like a shaved cat: no hair and ready to claw anyone who came within two feet of him.

And the eyebrows. Or, the _not-_ eyebrows. If the purpose of the curse was to make your opponent look as creepy as possible, Harry had to admit that Malfoy certainly succeeded. 

Harry wondered if Malfoy’s curse had affected _all_ the hair on Ron’s body. Ron wasn’t very hairy to begin with but…but now he was thinking about-- _looking at_ \--his best friend’s crotch and imaging if the carpet had been replaced with hardwood flooring. Which was something he needed to stop any moment now. 

He kinda wanted to go back and hex Malfoy all over again for making him spend even a few seconds contemplating the insides of his mate’s pants. There were some things you never ever wanted to know about your almost-brother, and this had to be up near the top. Right next to what they sounded like while wanking.

Which, unfortunately, thanks to years of dorm room living, Harry had intimate knowledge of. 

And he was still looking at Ron’s crotch. Because somehow it became imperative for him to know. Even if he dreaded the answer. “How..I mean…” Harry stuttered. “Is it...all…”

Ron glared at him. Like he knew. Like he knew and he was going to make him ask and after Harry had asked he was going to beat him to death with his wand. By like...sheer determination and force of will. Or something. 

So Harry took the better part of valor and used it to smother the part of himself that was going to get himself hexed in his Head of House’s office by his former best friend. Plus, the other chair was looking mighty fine, right at that moment. There was no reason not to sit in it. In silence. 

Not thinking about Ron’s dick.

They sat, for a while, just them in the chairs and nothing but the sounds from down the hall (students talking loudly, running down the corridor after other students or just trying not to be late). Sometimes Ron would brush some of his hair off his clothes, a red ring of fallen hair taking shape around his chair. Not noticeably, but not not noticeably either. Ron had really red hair. Or had had.

Harry hoped the spell was only temporary because Ron with no hair and no eyebrows and-- _shudder_ \--no eyelashes was creepy. Ron would also kill Malfoy, but by that point in their lives that was really more of a _when_ situation than an _if_ one. 

After a while the waiting got boring, and even Harry was starting to think that McGonagall was just waiting for them to bore themselves into a coma and save her the trouble. He looked over at Ron who had sunk so far down the chair that his long legs were brushing up against the edge of the desk.

“What’s a switch, anyways?” Harry asked, more to fill the silence than any real curiosity. Or any curiosity that he was willing to admit to.

Ron turned to look at Harry, his face scrunched in confusion--and yeah, Harry had to repress a shudder because the guy was looking more and more like the plastic doll a girl down the street from him, on Privet Drive, used to drag behind her till Dudley and the Dunderheads ripped its head off--before saying, “A switch is, well like Malfoy, mate. One minute she has tits, then she takes a potion and out comes a cock and down goes the tits.. It’sa damn shame too. She had some real fine knockers on her. Bit of a waste, that.”

“She has a...he... _Malfoy_ has a cock?” Harry’s tried not look down or grab any suddenly really essential parts of his anatomy. “Like a real one? All…”

He had no clue what to say after that. He was stuck on the whole idea of Malfoy, the snobbish Slytherin _girl_ who was the bane of his existence, walking around with a dick just flapping about under her, his?, skirt. Not that he...she... _Malfoy_ wore skirts anymore. At least he didn’t think so. But if he did...

_Oh, that was a thought he was_ never _going to admit to having._

“Merlin.”

“I know, mate. Talk about freaky.” Ron laughed, probably forgetting his best friend had less than great feelings about the term ‘freak’ in any context. Malfoy included, it seemed. “It’s permanent, too. Not like polyjuice. Well, unless she decides to not take the rest of the potions, then I think it like goes away or something.”

“It’ll just... _vanish_? Or does it go back up into the...?” Harry waved down towards his lap, and then stopped because he didn’t want Ron thinking about his dick anymore than he wanted to be thinking about Ron’s.

Ron shrugged. “Don’t know, do I. It’s not like I know anyone who’d do that kind of thing. Or, they bloody well know not to talk about it. Merlin, can you just imagine finding out your uncle used to be your aunt?”

Harry couldn’t help the sudden flash of Vernon Dursley dressed as a woman, fat pushing out of a tight dress as he downed a beer and belched, loudly, while screaming at the telly. He then promptly tried to wandlessly obliviate himself. 

“Anyways, it’s not something you talk about. People will disappear every once and while and then an unknown aunt or cousin will suddenly be discovered. Or they do it when the witch is still too young for school so that no one figures out that they have witch camping out the guy’s dorms when they come to Hogwarts.”

“Oh, but…” Harry scratched at the rough tartan fabric covering the chair. “Wouldn’t it be ok? Like she’d be a wizard, you know? If she had all the right, um, parts?”

Ron snorted a laugh at that. “Mate, you could polyjuice yourself to look like flipping McGonagall, _parts_ and all. Still wouldn't make you a bleeding woman now would it?”

“No. I guess not.” But… “You said that it was permanent. Right? Polyjuice wears off in what? An hour, two hours? And you're like a completely different person. It’d hardly be the same as being that all the time.” At least Harry didn’t think so. 

“Mate, look, you’re thinking too hard about it. They’re nutters. That’s why no one talks about it. You don’t exactly go around telling every wizard you meet about crazy aunt Winifred tucked up in the family attic, now do ya?”

“If they’re crazy, or well, not well or anything,” Harry hedged, “it’s hardly right to be making fun of them.”

Harry had spent a large portion of his life being “not well,” and he can’t remember a single time that having Dudley bullying him had made him feel better. Especially ‘cause Dudley was the one who made him not well in the first place. And how many times had Petunia called him crazy? Or freak? Too many to probably count. It’s not like her yelling at him for turning the spoons into jelly ever made things better. He couldn’t control what was he was doing, it was hardly his fault. 

Maybe that was what was different? Malfoy chose this? He certainly didn’t act like someone had forced the potion, or spell, or whatever it was, on him. But if he was crazy or sick it was hardly his fault. People did stupid things when they were sick. No one had certainly yelled at Dudley when he tried to walk around the house naked when he had that fever when he was seven. Harry would have been locked in his cupboard faster than you could say BOY! but then again, Harry was always being locked in his cupboard. Sick or no.

He looked over at Ron who was giving him a weird look. "I'm just saying..."

Harry wasn't sure what he was saying. Ron seemed to agree.

"This is Malfoy we're talking 'bout, yeah? The pointy-nosed bitch that tried to have you expelled in third year? Remember that? Or how 'bout when she got those pet snakes of hers to lock us in the astronomy tower last year. In the middle of January. During a blizzard. 'Member that?

"She's been nothing but a pain in our arses since first year. You should be happy to remind her just what kind of freak she is. She's no better than she oughtta. If You-Know-Who was still around you can bet your wand that she'd be all over him just like her father was. Death Eater whores, the whole lot of ‘em."

Right. Harry knew that. He did. Sometimes it was easy to forget, though, about her father, and his parents, and fucking Voldemort. It shouldn't be.The bastard was the reason he had to spend his life in Privet Drive Hell. The reason his parents were dead and he spent too much time ducking crazy fans in Diagon Alley.

All that was true...but he’d sometimes forget that part of his life. Here at Hogwarts, with all its magic and newness--even after six years--he was just Harry. It was only when someone brought it up that he remembered that he was The-Boy-Who-Lived. He didn't know his parents, not really, and except for that one not-so-memorable-moment (not for him, anyways) he had never met Voldemort. He hated the man for what he did, but it didn't have the impact that everyone assumed-- _demanded_ \--it have. Not that he could tell anyone that.

Even Ron. Maybe especially Ron. Ron who seemed to have very set ideas about everything. Harry knew how his best friend would react, and he didn't want to have all that stubborn certainty centered on him. Not about this.

Ron sighed, then leaned towards Harry. “Look, just trust me on this, yeah? She’s just doin’ it to make everyone forget about last year. Just you see. Come Christmas she’ll be back to normal. Malfoys do this, mate. It’s who they are. They distract you and when you are focusing on something else they stab you in the back. You go treating her like she’s something special now and she’ll just be rubbing it in come spring. Makin’ sure _you're_ the joke and not her.”

He was right. They’d both seen it done before. And this time Harry had no intention of being the butt of any Slytherin joke. Harry leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “You're right, Ron. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“‘Course I was right.” He could hear the smile in Ron’s voice. “Now when you think McGonagall going to get her ass in here so we can go get somethin’ to eat?”

Which was of course the exact moment that Professor McGonagall walked into her office. Because Ron had the luck of a Hufflepuff and the tact of a Gryffindor. He didn’t know what that said about him that he was the poor git’s best friend. 

“Well, Mr. Weasley, I hardly think my posterior is of any consideration of yours. And seeing as you are having trouble remembering things like school rules that have been in effect for many years before you even graced us with your presence, perhaps the loss of twenty-five points will help you remember.” McGonagall said. Ron winced and sat up straight in his chair. His face was as red as the hair on the floor around him. “And while I would hardly be one to deprive one of my students of a proper meal, perhaps we can take some time to discuss your habit of fighting in the corridors, hmmm? Of course, only if you feel you will not faint from hunger.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ron mumbled. “er...I mean, _no_ , ma’am..or....”

McGonagall sat in her chair behind the desk and folded her hands in front of her. Harry glanced over at Ron, who looked like he was going to start another round of yes-no.

Harry straightened up in his chair, trying to look properly chastised. It was a skill he had honed long ago. It never seemed to work well then, either. “We’re sorry, Professor.”

“Not,” she said, “as sorry as I feel you are going to be tonight. But, it is a start.”

Harry and Ron traded worried glances. 

“Firstly on the matter of points--”

“But you already--” Ron shut his mouth with a click when McGonagall leveled a glare at him.

“That was for your less than respectful remarks earlier, Mr. Weasley, though if you think we should revisit that part of the conversation…”

“No,” Ron practically yelled. “No, that’s fine. No need to dredge up the past and all.”

“I thought so. Now, as for the loss of points…”

Despite once again being the cause of Gryffindor losses, Harry had a strong feeling that the points were going to be the least of their worries. And as McGonagall continued on, Harry was once again overcome with the feeling that he had probably made the wrong choice when he decided to not take Divination in third year. Turns out he might have made one hell of a seer, after all. 

Too bad they had to give that time-turner back. It would have come in awful handy these days.


	4. Into The Woods

Among the three Houses (those not “blessed” to reside in the coddled mass of red and gold) it was widely believed that detention in the Forbidden Forest was Dumbledore’s way of attempting to ‘thin the herd’ as it were, without getting called out for the cold-blooded murder of the students under his care. No one had actually _died_ in the time that Draco had been attending Hogwarts, but there were a significant amount of ‘accidents’ that seemed to befall students who served detention under the dark branches of the forest.

Though when you send students, after dark, into a _forbidden_ forest, you really shouldn’t be surprised when they come back bleeding. Or missing thumbs (that technically only happened once, but the poor Hufflepuff was so traumatized, even after the digit was regrown, that she had a fit anytime she had to even go near the Herbology gardens).

That there was only one Gryffindor for every ten students of a differing House ever sent into the forest, was surely a coincidence. If by coincidence you perhaps meant a systematic favoring of the cowardly lions by the Headmaster and certain (almost all) professors. 

Draco remembered hearing about a Ravenclaw, a few years ago, that spent years gathering information on every single point-deduction and detention awarded to each House over the her last two years at Hogwarts. He couldn’t remember the exact numbers, but in both categories Gryffindor always came up last. Slytherin, unsurprisingly, “won” the title of most detentions _and_ most points taken. The only House close to rivaling Gryffindor was Hufflepuff--and Draco was convinced that was because a lot of the time people just forgot that they were there. 

Even when they were stumbling beside you clutching their wand--their bare spark of a _lumos_ hardly lighting their nose--and staring terrified into the menacing shadow that was the Forbidden Forest. 

Draco wondered what the poor kid had done to deserve her almost assured mauling (and/or death) at the hands/tentacles/claws that populated the forest. He couldn’t see the shivering second year starting a duel in the school corridors--the reason Draco et al were heading out from the castle towards the treeline--and most professors tended to assign in-castle detention for a lot of the minor infractions.

Up ahead of him, Potter and Weasley (whose bare head glowed in the moonlight) trudged thru the damp grass next to the large figure of Hagrid. They seemed to be having a spirited discussion of something, acting as if this was a picnic on a lovely summer’s day instead of a midnight (ok, nine o’clock) excursion into the dark and dangerous forest. Seeing as who they were, and what they were, it was doubtful they had much to worry about. No doubt the oaf was under strict instructions to protect their fragile skin from so much as a pinprick. If tradition held, Hagrid would shepherd the precious Gryffindors off with himself as protection and the rest of the poor bastards would have to fend for themselves. 

Draco tried to shrug off the tension growing in his shoulders as nothing more than growing pains. He wasn’t going to get upset over something that always was and always would be as long as Dumbledore ruled the castle. He’d had more than six years to get used to the way life was at Hogwarts, now at year seven was not the time to ferment rebellion. He just wanted out. 

Preferably with enough N.E.W.T.S. that he’d be able to find a job despite his family’s rather shaded past.

So, it was fine. Really. Two upperclass Slytherins and a… Well, two upperclass Slytherins should be more than able to protect themselves and one small Hufflepuff for the few hours it took to gather whatever (probably unneeded) plant that they were being sent after. And if worse came to worse, Draco thought as Turner came up beside him, Turner could just knock out whatever was threatening them with his fists. Or his smell. As long as whatever it was wasn’t going to attack them, Draco didn’t care how its demise came about.

Not that anything was going to try and kill them. 

After the long (short, much too short) walk across the green, they halted mere steps away from the treeline. On the ground baskets of precarious weave were lined up. One for each of the students. Draco nudged the one in front of him with his boot. It didn’t fall apart, much to his surprise. 

“Pick’a basket. We’ve no time’ta waste.” Hagrid hoisted his large lantern up, bathing the area in golden light. “Don’ wanna be out here when the thestral start wakin’ up. Breedin’ season makes ‘em a bit tetchy.”

No doubt that was Hagrid for “will tear you apart with their teeth.” 

Potter leaned over to Weasley and whispered, “What’s a threstle?”

“ _Thestral_ , Harry,” Hagrid said. “They’re lovely creatures, they are. Pull the carriages for the school each year. You should see ‘em, all lined up--”

“Yes, we can sacrifice Weasley right where we stand and poor deprived Potter can finally see Death’s horses all he likes.” Really, wishing thestrals on someone. People thought _he_ had no tact. “I’m sure the Weasel won’t mind, now would you?”

Ron hissed. Or his bag of hot air had sprung a leak. “Filth--”

“Right, then. That’sa ‘nough.” Hagrid pointed at the two--three if you counted Potter’s nasty glare--of them. “Take’a basket. You start yellin’ and y’ll ‘ttract ev’ry thing in the forest to ya.”

Draco picked up the basket like it held squirming flobberworms up to the brim. For all he knew that was what it was going to hold by the end of the night. It’d be a fitting punishment...for the Gryffindors.

“Everyone got one?” Nodding heads all-round. Reluctant nodding heads. “Good. Professor Snape ‘as been after me to be gettin’ him some fresh floo heads all summer. Nearly outta season, they are. You’re to help me find the flower and pick as many heads as ya can. What the Profess’r can’t use, he can sell. Worth a shiny galleon, they are.

“Same rules as before. Stay together an’ send up a flare if somethin’ goes a-wrong.” 

Draco saw Turner roll his eyes. Flares were all well and good if you were only concerned with someone finding your body after the fact. First sign of danger, you run like mad and _maybe_ then you worry about shooting of sparklies to alert the others. If that doesn’t work, you’d be too busy trying to cast your way out of danger to worry about flares, anyhow.

“I’ll be taking Ms. Kenning with me. Don’t wanna lose her in the underbrush.” Hagrid chortled. The Hufflepuff turned fairly luminescent in the pale moonlight. “Mis’er Turner, Ron, you’ll go to the right. Harry, you and Miss...er. Malfoy can take the left-hand path.”

Wait. What? “Surely you don’t mean to put Potter with--”

“I’m not going with no Slytherin! You got to be bonkers, Hagrid!”

“Hagrid, I’m sure me and Ron can--”

“--’ex his bollocks off if--”

“ _Merlin’s sagging tits!_ ”

Everyone turned to look at Kenning, the Hufflepuff, in varying states of shock and awe. There was a hushed pause as they all just waited to see if it was just an aberration or if the next time she opened her mouth that voice was going to utter even more softly spoken profanity.

Kenning looked as shocked as the rest of them. Hugging her basket close to her chest she mumbled a barely audible, “ _Sorry_ , sir.”

Draco blinked. Right. Hufflepuffs. Never knew what you were getting with those ones. His brain struggled to remember what he’d been doing before the littlest puff started talking of droopy breasts.

Hagrid clapped his hands once, then rubbed them together. His excitement for a midnight stroll thru the Forbidden Forrest clearly evident in his manic grin. “Right, like I said, stay together now. I’ll send up’a green flare when it’s time to come back.”

“Hagrid!” Weasley whined like the baby his bald head resembled. 

“Sorry, Ron. Orders ar’ orders. Got ‘em from the ‘eadmaster, I did. You’ll do fine with Mis’er Turner. Not bad at ‘erbology, or so I’m told.”

“I’m not worried about _me_.” Weasley pointed at his chest like they couldn’t figure out who he was talking about without a visual clue. Poor Weasley, it must be so hard being so stupid. “You're letting that bi--Malfoy go off alone with Harry. She’s as likely to curse him in the back as not. You can’t be thinking--”

“Orders, Mis’ter Weasley.”

_Oohh, last naming the Weasel_. Draco smirked.

“Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn’t be lettin’ ‘em go off together if he didn’ have ‘is reasons.”

Ron snorted. Draco had the horrible sensation of wanting to agree with the Gryffindor. If the Headmaster had any plans for this night, it was to have Draco run over by a herd of stampeding centaurs, with Potter only there to give testimony that is was all such a horribly tragic accident.

Well, if even so much as a single cantankerous fawn came within rampaging distance, Draco planned on pushing Potter at it and hightailing it in the opposite direction. He wasn’t an idiot and Potter had a hero-complex the size of the Great Hall. He’d probably appreciate the chance to finally put it into action.

“We’re losing time.” Hagrid pulled the Hufflepuff by the arm. Draco could almost swear he heard her squeak _fuck_ as she stumbled after the professor. “Harry, Malfoy, bes’ you get goin’. Ron, Mis’er Turner, there you go.”

Hagrid pushed the basket Weasley had dropped into his hands, then herded the three students off into the forest. Ron looked over his shoulder, glaring at Draco. Draco smiled and waved. 

Potter knocked his basket against Draco’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

“Don’t worry, Potter, I’ll protect you if anything tries to eat you.” He paused. “Or at least only let it take a few bites. Wouldn’t want the local flora to go hungry.”

“Shut it, Malfoy.”

Draco upped his lumos spell as they passed the edge of the forest. The last bit of moonlight didn’t make it more than a couple feet into the trees’ shadows. “King of comebacks, Potter. Do they give you a crown up in your poncy tower? Lay down to kiss your feet every time you open your mouth? _Oh, Harry_ ,” Draco said in a falsetto, “ _please tell us another one. You’re so--_ ”

A clod of dirt smacked into his chest. 

“I said shut it.” Potter wiped his hand on his robe. “Bad enough I’m stuck with you. You don’t need to be acting like a right bit-- _prat_ all the time.”

“Oh say what you mean, Potter,” Draco sneered. “Want to call me a bitch, call me a bitch. Not like anything ever stopped you or your chummy little pals before.” 

Potter’s jaw flexed, shadow moving to fill the tight area from cheekbone to jaw line. He didn’t say anything, though. Potter pushed forward, moving ahead of Draco further into the forest. Draco followed.

_First techy slug_ , Draco thought. 

They had rounded the third bend in the path when Potter slowed to walk back beside Draco. He ignored Draco’s raised eyebrow. 

“What’s a flew flower look like, anyways?” Potter practically slurred the name, as if he’d been at the firewiskey all night.

“ _Floo_ flower?” Draco made sure to enunciate.

“Yeah, that.”

“How’d you get to seventh year and not know what a floo flower looks like?” He was honestly curious, because… “I’m pretty sure it was in our Herbology O.W.L.s, Potter.”

Potter could have blushed, but it might have just been him walking slightly farther into the shadow of a large tree. “It’s not my best subject.”

“What is?” Oh, what a stupid question. “Never mind. I know. _Defense_.”

Potter smiled. “Yeah. Though I like charms. It’s fun.”

“And that’s how you base things? On how fun they are?”

“Yes,” Potter bit out.

_And there goes that conversation_. Draco was surprised to find that he actually regretted the loss of it. They’d been having an actual conversation. Like...like people who were not mortal enemies. It’s been nice. For the novelty.

The path had shrunk as they’d gone along. Where in the beginning four people could have easily walked side by side, now the two of them barely fit. Yet despite how close together they were the light put out by their two wands was easily swallowed by the dark. Draco had been forced to hold his wand in his left hand after the second time his wand-arm bumped into Potter. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but left-handed wandwork had always been a bit off for Draco. He instinctively moved closer to Potter to help conserve their meager ration of light. Which led him back to bumping shoulders with the irritable Gryffindor.

The path shrunk even further and Potter moved back slightly, as if to guard over Draco’s right shoulder. Draco absolutely did not have even the slightest twinge in his gut over the move. There was no reason to have _feelings_ about it.

All it meant was they’d stop running into each other. Nothing more.

“Green veins,” Draco all but blurted.

“Where? What?” Harry, no _Potter’s_ voice sounded confused (and warm) in Draco’s ear. Potter raised his wand higher as if he expected an attack immenintly. It didn’t do much more than bring Potter’s chest closer to Draco’s back.

“The flower. The floo flower. That’s how you know it’s...a floo flower. Green veins up the side of the petals. They glow in the dark. That’s why we’re out here at night. It’s harder to find during the day. The veins are pale and you have to practically already have fallen over them to find ‘em. But at night they are easy to see. If you can find them. It’s a big forest and all. But…” Draco could stop talking any second now.

“Green veins. Got it.”

Another turn. Then another. And yet another. If the goal had been to get the students lost in the forest, Draco had the feeling it was exceeding all expectations. Nothing out on either side of the path looked like it would be a good spot to find the flowers growing. Darkness, but not too dark. There needed to be _some_ sunlight, but too much would kill the flower. A small glade, surrounded by high trees would be best. How he was supposed to find the damn place in the pitch dark, he hadn’t a clue.

Sometimes it pays to have the Boy-Who-Lucked-Himself-Out-Of-Death by your side.

“Is that--” Potter stumbled to a halt. “Yeah, right there. Can you see it?”

Potter was waving his wand off to the right, near a narrow opening between the tightly packed trees. 

“Lower your wand, Potter, I can’t see anything with all that light waving about in front of my eyes.”

“Right, sorry.” The _lumos_ light vanished to only a bare spark. Draco did the same with his wand. 

“How in Merlin’s name could you have possibly seen that, Potter?” The green glow was only just visible thru the dark. Draco had to squint to see it. If they moved a foot in either direction the trees would have blocked the sight. 

“I’m good at seeing things?” Potter said.

Draco looked skeptically at the bespeckled wizard. “And the glasses? Gryffindor fashion accessories?”

Light glinted off the frames when Potter self-consciously adjusted them. “No. I can barely see without them. I’m just good at seeing things. Seeker and all, you know.”

“Yes. I know.” 

And wasn’t that a lovely reminder of something else that he’d had taken away from him thanks to his sixth year stupidity. No Quidditch for Draco Malfoy. He’d been looking forward to at least one more year of playing. Professional Quidditch was pretty much out of the question now. Even if he played like Victor bloody Krum, no (acknowledged) Switch had ever made it into practice try-outs, let alone on the team.

“Well, come on, Potter,” Draco said. He cranked up the _lumos_ as he walked off the path. The earth beneath his feet sunk under the pressure of his body, but at least it was not wet enough to suck and stick to his boots as he moved along. Trees grew up right next to each other in patches out in this part of the forest. They’d have to shimmy thru the opening here if they didn’t want to go hunting thru the dark to find another way into the glade. “Here, hold my basket while I...bit of a tight fit, this. Watch your feet as you come thru, there’s a bit of a drop on the other side.”

The open space on the other side of the trees was no more than ten feet in either direction. Patchy grasses filled the middle. Ringed around the circumference of the glade were floo flowers all wreathed in an eery green glow. The tallest stood at just under Draco’s height, the heads a giant fistful, the petals coming out in 9 long twisting lines. Smaller flowers, close to the ground, had heads only the size of the top notch of his thumb. It would be best to go after the more middling flowers. They’d last longer for Snape, and Draco and Potter could fit more in the basket than with the larger ones.

“Malfoy,” Potter said. “A little help?”

Draco looked back. Potter stood on the other side, holding out both their baskets. “Here, give me those.”

“That what I was doing.”

“Just give ‘em.” When Potter made it thru Draco pushed one of the baskets at him. “You go left, I’ll go right. Try for ones that are about this size or a bit bigger.” He mimed the rough shape of a snitch.

With basket in hand, Potter turned to the ring of flowers. He poked at a flower in front of him with his wand. “Hey, Malfoy, how are we supposed to gather these things? If we use our wands we’ll be standing in the dark.”

“Must I do _everything_?” Though why he expected Potter to figure it out by himself, Draco had no clue. Potter probably had someone constantly at his side, guiding him thru everything from brushing his teeth to transfiguring his class projects. 

Speaking of transfiguring…

“Come over here and hold up your wand so I can see what I’m doing.” Because Potter was right in one respect. You couldn’t hold a _lumos_ and still cast other spells. Which was a rather big failing for a spell so readily used.

With the light from Potter’s wand over him, Draco took two twigs from the ground and transfigured them into hand sized pruning shears. He made a second set for Potter. 

“Those should do it,” he said, slapping the tool into Potter’s hand. “Anything else?”

“No.” 

“Then go,” Draco waved his hand towards the flowers. “Get on with it, then.”

“You’re very bossy, you know that?”

“That is actually the nicest thing anyone has said about me all week.”

Potter shook his head and went back to examining the flowers up close. Draco followed suit.

He’d just found a set of three flowers to add to his basket when Potter’s _dammit_ filled the space. Draco looked over to see the head of a flower topple to the ground, luminescent green liquid trailing down Potter’s arm.

“Oi, Potter, watch where you are cutting. You ruined that one.” Draco walked over and picked it up. “See here. You’ve nicked the bottom. Can’t use it now that all the nectar has run out.”

“Well I can’t bloody see where I’m cutting, can I? If I hold up the flower my light is going the wrong way. If I point my wand at it, I can’t get it in the right place to cut,” Harry fumed. “Bloody impossible.”

“So your solution was to start cutting willy-nilly?” Draco snarked. “We’ll be here all night at that rate.”

“So what’d I do, then?”

“You could try using your brain, Potter. I’m sure there is one under that mop. Somewhere.”

Potter mumbled something (highly uncomplimentary, no doubt) under his breath. “Fine.”

Draco watch in horror as the Gryffindor took his wand and slammed it, handle-end first into the soft ground.

“Potter. Potter, Potter, Potter.” Draco pinched his nose, nearly stabbing himself in the eye with his shears. “Please tell me you didn’t just stick your wand into the ground like a _bloody tent peg_!”

“Solved it, didn’t I.” Potter smiled.

Draco wanted to shake the stupid idiot by the shoulders till some sense knocked loose in that empty head of his. “You are a wizard, Harry Potter--”

Potter snorted, then let loose what could only be described as a giggle. Maybe all the fresh air was getting to him?

“--I meant for you to use your _magic_. Not use your wand like a bloody muggle torch.”

“You didn’t say that though, did you? You said use my head. I used my head and now the problem is solved. Just because it is too muggle doesn’t mean it is wrong.”

“Just...just stay right there. No, wait. Take your wand _out of the dirt_ and then stay right there.” Draco lifted his wand, scouring the ground.

“This is what happens when you let wizards be raised by muggles,” he said to himself. “Not a lick of sense in any of them after the muggles get their stinking hands on ‘em. Treating wands like filthy sticks. What’s the world coming to?”

“You can shut it anytime, Malfoy.”

Draco looked over his shoulder. “But then who would you argue with?”

Potter didn’t have anything to say to that, it seemed. Score ten for Slytherin.

Draco found what he was looking for near the middle of the open grass. Two stones the size of his palm. He picked one up. “Come over here, Potter. Let’s see if you can learn something new.”

Potter grumbled, but came. Like a sulking puppy.

“Hold out your hand.” Draco sighed. “I’m not going to do anything to it, Potter. I swear on my honor as a Slytherin. And if so much as give whisper to that thought I will hex you. Slytherins have just as much honor as the rest of your lot. We have the brains to invest it better, that’s all.”

He placed the stone in Potter’s reluctantly outstretched hand. 

“How’s your transfiguration?”

Potter’s forehead wrinkled. “Passable.”

“Then you better let me do this part. Wouldn’t want the spell to slip at an inopportune moment.”

Draco touched his wand to the stone in Potter’s hand, whispering the spell to change it from stone to glass. He shaped it as it changed, making it rounder, and even all through. In the center he left a bubble of empty air. Once he was satisfied he repeated the process on his own stone.

Holding out his glass ball, Draco said, “Watch my wand movements, Potter. It’s fairly easy, but remember, clockwise, not _counter_ clockwise.” He held his wand over the glass and spun his wand clockwise in a decreasing spiral. “ _Speculum meridiem_.”

The glass began to glow, increasing in luminosity till he stopped spinning his wand. 

He looked up at Potter. “Well, give it a go.”

Potter fumbled the words the first time ‘round, but he got it on the second go. His ball glowed a bright, cheery yellow. It filled the glade. 

“Not bad, Potter. Though you might want to dim it a bit--counterclockwise this time, yeah--we don’t want the whole forest to know there is something tasty hiding out in here.”

“That’s it?” Potter looked down at the shining glass in his hands. “Doesn’t seem all that much better than holding my wand.”

Draco smiled, superciliously. “Nope. Best part for last, as they say. I made this charm myself. Modified the charm they use on bludgers. It’s dead useful when you have your hands full. You do have to be the one who casts it on the object or it’ll just follow the caster around instead of you.”

He lifted up his ball, and then tapped it twice. “ _Superius volitant_.”

The glowing ball rose slowly then started to circle around Draco’s body. It was spelled to stay at shoulder height or higher and not go more than a few feet from his body. Luckily it was also charmed to move out of his way as he moved or else he’d run the risk of braining himself on the flying glass if he ever stopped paying attention to it.

“Now that’s dead useful,” Potter said before he repeated the charm himself. “How long does it last?”

“Couple hours. Depends on what you cast it on. Heavier things tend to wear it out faster.”

“Well…” Potter put his wand in his pocket. “Guess we should get on with it, then?”

Draco nodded. Back to work, he guessed. He tried not to examine too closely the idea that showing off to Potter had been easily classified as _fun_. Wouldn’t want his head to explode, or anything.


	5. The Wood Is Just Trees

By the time their baskets were full both Potter and Draco were covered in sticky green nectar. Even with both hands it was sometimes impossible to not damage the thin underlining of the flower’s head. Their hands were covered in the stuff, and streaks of it lined their robes, the baskets, and the grass beneath their feet. As time went on their shears were reverting, as well, making it harder to cut as the blades dulled and turned back to wood. 

They had collected as much as they could, though, so by the time they held nothing but twigs in their hands they were more than happy to toss them back into the underbrush and head back towards the path. 

Hagrid’s flare still hadn’t been seen--though how exactly there were to see anything in the sky under the canopy of trees branches, Draco had no clue--but it would be stupid to linger in the forest when they no longer had a reason to. 

The glass balls still circled them both, though Potter’s had a tendency to dip a bit to close. Draco was glad for the orbiting light since it meant that his wand could stay safely holstered away from the green mess covering him. He nudged his light so that it would stay ahead of them, lighting the path for their feet. 

The path had no diverting branches, luckily, so all they had to do was retrace their steps back towards the castle. They could have done a point-me spell if they got turned ‘round, but that would require their wands, and yeah...not unless his life was at stake.

“This isn’t coming out of my robes, is it,” Potter said dejectedly. He poked at the splotch that had already soaked its way thru the tough cloth of his robes. 

Draco looked down at his own robes. “House elves can do a lot of things,” if you were allowed to have them, “ but I fear you must brace yourself for a total loss, Potter.”

He had worn his plainest set, himself, but even Draco had to admit the loss of them was a bit dear. An owl could be sent for one of last-year’s robes. Last year’s anything was surely cursed, though. No one could have that much bad luck by sheer coincidence. The Malfoys should change their family motto to _Secuti Per Fortunam Malum_. Bad luck follows.

A muffled _thump-crack_ came from behind them. Draco turned, noticing as he did that Potter withdrew his wand from his pocket; he pointed it towards the path they just covered. Draco didn’t see anything. He was going to just shrug it off (and make Potter walk slightly behind him the rest of the way back to the castle) but he noticed something flickering up in the branches above them. Potters light had floated too far from the wizard and got stuck up in a tree. Spells cast on objects without proper preparation tended to falter much sooner than ones carefully fixed in place. Potter, with only a bare introduction to the spell, had a lot of power but little precision. The spell was coming apart. They should be grateful it decided to wander away from them as the spell died, instead of at them. Being knocked unconscious in the Forbidden Forest by your own mismanaged spellcraft was frankly too embarrassing to be borne. 

They could summon it back, but at this point it would be a waste of time. Both spells would fail (Draco’s transfiguration a lot later than Potter’s shoddy charming) and it’d either fall to the ground and resume its boring existence as a forest rock, or it would stay tangled in the branches. Neither were much concern to Draco. 

“Leave it, Potter.” He nudged the other wizard back towards their previous destination. “Let’s get out of here before we lose them both.”

Draco didn’t gleefully point out that his light-ball still functioned. Humble as a cup of tea, he was.

When they heard the snap of twigs a bit later, Draco assumed it was the ball falling free. The second snap of brittle wood was a bit more worrying. After all, stones were not in the habit of falling out the sky twice. Even if they did, it was unlikely they’d be close enough to hear it. Which meant they’d not have heard it fall the first time either. 

_Dammit._

He really liked his thumbs. Why do you never cherish your thumbs till they are about to be pulled off by hungry forest trolls?

“Stop mumbling about your thumbs, Malfoy,” Potter said. His raised wand pointed in front of him, Potter circled their position. He still had his basket tucked up in the crook of his elbow. Draco held back an ill-timed snicker. “I don’t see anything…”

_You never do, till it is munching on your extremities with extreme prejudice._

Draco put down his basket near the side of the dirt path. Reluctantly he drew his wand, certain he was going to be spending at least an hour washing and treating the length of wood when they got back. A dirty wand was an accident in the making. Draco know the importance of wand maintenance. Potter’s wand probably never had a good hard polish in its life.

“Potter, the noise came from behind. Please stop being an idiot.” He didn’t want to be all alone in the line of fire (or teeth) if whatever was in the dark decided a midnight snack was in order. 

Potter gave him a dirty look but came back beside Draco. With a small flick of magic Draco called his light back to hover over them both. If they stayed close together they should be fine. They stood back to back; Draco covering the left, Potter the right. There was nothing but the sound of their own breathing. Potter’s back warmed him, but the silence of the forest felt as if it should have a frosty bite. He pressed further back into Potter. 

Potter’s deep breath moved Draco’s shoulders. “What do you think it--”

Two mingled shrieks tore thru the woods. 

The muscles in Potter’s arm flexed under Draco’s hand. Draco hastily removed his hand--and then his body--from Potter’s side. 

Potter’s lips were slightly torn under the wet swipe of his tongue. “That way,” he said, pointing his wand off towards his right. “That’s where it came from.”

“I was here too, you know. It was kinda hard to miss.”

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

“I was trying to hel--”

“You were being a complete…”

The ground underneath them shook like something large had impacted it suddenly and with great might. Another loud shriek full of pain and rage filled the air, but was quickly followed by a cry of triumph. Hooves on hard dirt, growls deep and vengeful, the tearing of age-old oak from the ground. 

It was loud and terrifying. And coming closer. 

In his mind Draco was half-way back to the castle, legs tearing thru the grass. In reality he was fighting the urge to vomit and trying to stay upright. He had never thought he’d _actually_ die. It was a story they told themselves to make the familiar shadows of the dorm room seem a bit more sinisters. For all their complaints, Hogwarts was supposed to be a safe place. 

It was a _school_ , for Merlin’s sake.

“...arse.” Potter breathed out the low curse. “We need to get off the road.”

Draco nodded. He didn’t take his eyes off the dark space between the trees. 

“Malfoy, we... _Malfoy!_ ”

He fell back a few steps at Potter’s urging, but he could not look away. He was feeling it again, that kind of reckless excitement that had goaded him all last year. He heart raced with it. He wanted to turn to Potter and ask if he felt it as well. Did he feel like this all the time? Did he feel like this last year as he followed Draco? Is this why they didn’t stop, each of them caught in this tantalizing terror?

It must be what it was like to be a Gryffindor. Wasn’t that a terrible thought.

His body was jerked around, his face much too close to Potter’s. Dark lashes and bright eyes. One day those green eyes would be the death of him.

“Dra--”

Draco held his breath. 

Potter shook his head. 

Draco remembered why holding his breath was never a good thing.

Five letters. One word. His name, and yet Potter could not say it.

“Don’t just stand there,” Potter said, instead.

Disappointment was foolhardy.

He moved out of Potter’s reach, walking calmly ( _mustn’t show them your feelings, Lyn my love_ ) towards the trees on the other side--was three feet of dirt enough to make it the safe-side?--of the path. They’d never make the castle. Hiding was the best option.

_Time to think like a Slytherin, Draco._

He didn’t look back to see if Potter followed. If trolls would feast on fools tonight, then let them feast on Potter.

Thorny underbrush caught his robes, snagging and tearing when he jerked the fabric free. They were a lost cause anyways. The first tree big enough to shield him from view he crouched behind. Potter sat next to him, his basket--of course the bloody Gryffindor still had it--at his feet. Draco reluctantly budged up. If the whatever saw Potter hanging out it wouldn’t do Draco any good. Eaten for dessert and not as the entrée, was still _eaten_.

The _thump_ of something heavy hitting the ground not more than ten paces from their hiding spot made them both flinch. Draco waited for more, more something. More loud and blood-curdling. There was just labored breathing. The scraping of hard-packed dirt. 

They were safe behind the tree. As long as what was out there didn’t know what was over here, they were safe. If they bid their time, all would end well.

Keeping low to the ground, Draco peered around the edge of the tree. Between bramble and grass he saw the path but nothing on it. There were furrows in the ground, like something heavy had been dragged forcefully over the soft dirt. Wet, dark liquid glinted in small puddles. 

“What’da see?” Potter asked, his front pressed up against Draco as he looked over Draco’s shoulder.

Draco tried to shrug him back, but Potter didn’t budge. “There’s nothing there.”

“What’s wrong with you? It’s like five feet in front of us, Malfoy. It looks pissed.”

“Potter, there’s nothing...oh, shit.” He pulled Potter back behind the tree. “Thestral. Quiet. _Don’t move._ ”

“Stop pull--mmph.” Potter’s eyes looked like brewing murder over the hand Draco had sealing his mouth shut.

Draco whispered in his ear. “Even you don’t wanna get between mating thestrals, Potter. And where there is one,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the path, “there is going to be another. And if Mr. Thestral thinks you are going to cock-block his attempts to get nice and cosy with Ms. Thestral he will stomp you into the ground without so much as a twitch of his tail. So. Be. Quiet.”

He felt Potter’s lips brush against his palm. Draco expected them to feel rough, but they were softer than was reasonable. When Potter gave a short jerk of the head, Draco reluctantly withdrew his hand. Potter didn’t say anything but he did go to look back over the side of the tree. Draco was forced to do the same or else have his nose squished into Potter’s chest.

The path looked just as empty as before. He could hear harsh panting breaths, but that could very well be coming from them. Or just him. Potter was infuriatingly calm. “Is it still there?”

“Yeah.” Potter ducked his head down to say it directly into Draco’s ear. “Can’t you see it?”

“No.” It came out harsher than he intended. After all it was ridiculous to feel jealous that Potter could see an animal you can only see after witnessing someone’s death. He wondered who Potter had seen die. But then again he was the sodding Boy-Who-Lived. It should be fairly obvious.

Potter grabbed his arm. Hard. “Um, I think we might have a problem.”

“What?”

“It’s looking at me, and I don’t think it wants an autograph.” Potter scrambled back--yanking Draco with him--just as something big came thundering into the trees.

“Run!” His voice broke in the middle.

“I can’t see it, Potter! Where the bloody fuck am I supposed to go?”

Instead of answering, Potter grabbed Draco’s collar and _pulled_. Draco clambered upright. 

_Bloody Gryffindors._

He scrambled behind Potter, his feet slipping on the leaves and his clothes catching on the thorns and twigs. Draco didn’t know where they were going except hopefully not full tilt into a tree. Luckily it seemed like the thestral was having as much trouble navigating the forest as they were. Well, they weren’t dead yet so he assumed so, what with him being unable to see the bloody beast. If he strangled Potter he wondered how long it would take for the whole now-you-see-it effect to take place. Would it be better to be trampled to death by a thestral or at the wand-point of some wizard when it became clear he’d killed the savior of the wizarding world?

_Merlin save me_ , he thought, disgusted. If these were going to be his last thoughts Draco was going to come back and haunt Potter for getting him in this Merlin-cursed mess.

Draco leaned up against a tree, gasping. He wasn’t made for this kind of exercise. Flying brooms, yes. Long leisurely strolls, most certainly. Mad dashes for his life, not in this lifetime. “Potter,” breath, “wait,” breath, “a minute,”-- _while I die over here_.

“Malfoy, we have to keep moving.” _He_ wasn’t even breathing hard. The bastard.

“You keep moving.” Draco said as graciously as an asthmatic smoker with two broken ankles. “I’ll stay here while you go distract it.”

Would it ruin what was left of his dignity to slump to the ground?

When Snape said he body would be lagging behind in some aspects as the year when by, he apparently hadn’t been joking. Bigger body, smaller lungs. Or same lungs. Which clearly were not made for extended periods of exercise. Despite the trauma that the first potion inflicted on him, he couldn’t help but wish it had done a _bit_ more.

“Come’n, Malfoy. You don’t want to let’a Gryffindor beat you, do ya?”

“I’m not letting you beat me, you ignoramus. I’m letting you throw yourself at certain death.” He pushed off the tree, though. Not because of what Potter had said, but because he could hear the beast getting closer. Why did it insist on chasing them when they clearly had no desire to interrupt any of its nocturnal dealings? 

With a hand around Draco’s arm--Draco was too tired to protest--Potter started running. Ok, it was more like walking with an occasion stumble that might be considered a jog, but whatever.

“Just a bit farther.”

_To what?_ Draco had lost all sense of direction by then. They could be ten steps to the forest’s edge or ten steps from a dragon’s lair. He wouldn’t know the difference. 

Where there dragons in Scotland?

Merlin, he hoped not. They didn’t need to deal with dragons on top of everything else. Though if the dragon ate the thestral Draco would be the last person to complain about it.

‘Farther’ turned out to be an open patch of grass so like, at first glance, where they had harvested the floo flowers, that Draco feared they had done nothing but run in circles for the last hour. It would be enough to make a Slytherin cry in frustration. 

There were no decimated flowers, though, and one end of the oval created by the bracketing trees was taken up by a large rock formation. The rocks were half as high as the trees around it--which was still pretty damn tall--and nearly seven meters wide. How deep it went into the forest behind, he couldn’t guess.

Draco had a sinking feeling that his night was going to end with him and Potter stuck on top that rock till someone came to rescue them. It was embarrassing enough that no doubt by the time that classes started tomorrow everyone would have heard. He didn’t know which of them would have it worse: the Gryffindor left to snuggle a snake, or the Slytherin found in the arms of a lion? Either way Draco was left contemplating what his funeral would be like, because there was no way, by Merlin’s holy hot pants, he was going to let himself be found like that. Or at least only over Potter’s dead body.

The lack of trees meant they had less things to fight thru, but it also meant that the thestral would have a straight shot once it cleared the trees as well. It would be coming, too. Draco didn’t have any luck but ill, lately.

Potter trudged forwards, Draco trailing behind. His foot caught a wet patch and his body, tired and aching, followed him down and out. He missed the moment his nose buried itself in dirt and grass because he was too busy feeling his foot twist in a way that _twanged_ something deep in his leg.

He didn’t curse.

He didn’t scream.

He did contemplate obliviating Potter and feeding him to the thestral since this was clearly his fault. It was all his fault. Nothing liked this even remotely happened except when Potter was around. All that good luck had to be balanced out somehow. Draco was that somehow. 

It rankled like over-starched socks or walnuts in his favorite chocolates. 

“Malfoy.” It was said with such exasperation. Draco’s mother couldn’t have done any better. “Do you have to be so _frustrating_?”

Draco lifted his head out of the dirt. “It’s a gift.”

“It’s a something. Come on. Take my hand.”

Draco took it. It felt slightly slick with sweat. But it was warm. It was strong. The arm around his waist was even more so. 

He hated feeling like a damsel in distress. And not just because most women he knew seemed practically incapable of finding themselves in in a distressing situation that would require outside assistance. He hated the part of him that wanted a strong arm around him. 

He didn’t draw away. Not even when the angry bellows of the thestral erupted behind them. They were not even half-way thru the field. 

Trapped betwixt a rock and an angry thestral.

Draco giggled. 

There was a joke in there. If you squinted. Or drank heavily.

Potter sighed. Draco turned to see the Gryffindor shut his eyes briefly. Just briefly. Potter took another breath, deeper, then opened his eyes. He turned to Draco. “Can you stand?”

Draco tested his foot. It didn’t matter what the truth was, he knew. “Of course.”

“Can’ya run?”

He scowled. “I’m not letting you fight it alone while I go hide.” 

It was the right thing to say. It was also the stupid thing to say and Draco dearily wanted to hide and let Potter do the dirty work.

“If you can’t see it, how d’ya plan on fighting it?”

Draco pulled his sticky wand from its strap. “You point. I fire.”

“And if it gets me?”

“Then I’ll know exactly where to send the next curse. Over your dead body.”

Potter relented in the face of such cunning. “It’s your funeral.”

“I think you will find, Potter, that it would have been yours. Had I not been here.”

“You keep on thinking that, mate.”

They both turned, wands out. Draco couldn’t see anything (except both the forest and the trees) but Potter turned to track something off his right. 

“What’s it doing?” he whispered.

“Um. Circling? It doesn’t seem to wanna get any closer.”

That was a bit of luck.

He could totally stand in a field with Potter till the thestral decided to fuck off and, well, go fuck somewhere else. If he got to lean against Potter--for warmth--he wouldn’t say no either. 

A rustling in the trees behind them-- _why did thing like this always happen to him?_ \--quickly squashed any of Draco’s hopes. From the way Potter stepped in front of him, he seemed to concur.

Rather than _thwaping_ Potter over the head for his wizard-in-flashing-robes routine, Draco turned to face the other direction. Mirroring the position they’d taken way back at where their path and the path had diverged. 

Without Potter to guide his spells his previous plan was useless. He was going to be stuck casting defense spells and hoping they’d keep the beasts out. Some magical creatures reacted oddly to cast-magic. They didn’t cover thestrals in their O.W.L.s and Draco hadn’t taken the classes past fifth year. He’d no idea what would (or wouldn’t) work against them.

It was all a bit wish-a-wand, but there was not much more he could do. 

Draco was about to set the spell shield around them when he saw something move in the distant trees. Not just the trees being moved by something, but an actual body in the trees. Which was upsetting since unless Potter had dropped dead in the intervening thirty seconds, he should not be seeing thestrals. And if he should not be seeing thestrals, then he was seeing something else. 

Draco was starting to feel like a snitch in the middle of a blood-thirsty seekers-game. One where the winner ate the snitch and gnawed on its bones. 

He wasn’t the only one to see it either. The thestral screeched a warning challenge. The beast in the forest answered. Definitely _not_ a thestral.

Potter jerked his head around. “What was _that?_ ”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he lied. A little. “Now, eyes forward!”

The flash of Draco’s protego meant he saw a brief outline of wings in the forest, but then the darkness hid them again. If that was indeed what he saw.

The only light in the clearing was the round ball slowly turning over Draco. The light had dimmed perceptively and he knew it would soon be gone for good. He sent it off to his left a few paces. 

“On your-- _protego duo_ \--left!”

The air to his right shimmered as the thestral collided with it.

“That’s my right!”

“ _Confundo!_ Shit-- _confundo_ , dammit!--sorry.”

Potter’s spells lit the night.

Draco saw a beak in the trees.

Giant birds. Lovely.

He cast another set of protego charms, but they had never been his best area. Light magic was harder for him to work, oddly enough, and if he was caught casting so-called ‘dark magic’ on school property he’d be out before Dumbledore could say “ _lemon drop?_ ”. But Potter needed to handle the thestral and so far the bid-in-the-trees was happy to yell and little more. Draco was left with their mutual defense. Much to both of their horrors, no doubt.

“ _Con_ \--”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter. Use something else!”

“I don’t want to hurt it. It’s just--”

“Trying to kill us? Yes. I noticed.”

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Draco was perpetually surrounded by morons. “Just cast something else. Don’t harm a hair on its precious rear-end, if you can’t stand to, but _confundo_ clearly doesn’t work on them. So…”

“Right.”

Whatever magic made up the thestrals was particularly resistant to magical interference. With shield charms they could keep it away--barely--but most magic thrown at it dissolved on contact. Potter’s _immobulus_ had the most effect, and that worked all of five seconds before the thestral shrugged it off. 

Draco’s light spell was down to single-candle brightness by the time they were left leaning against each other, out of breath. 

“I want...a thestral,” Potter said.

“What are you on about?” Or, what are you on?

“For the...next time I...get mobbed...in Diagon Alley. Gonna set thestral...on them. Watch. It’d be great. Just...you see.” Potter staightend up agian. The thestral was coming back for another volley. “Gonna laugh myself silly as they. Just. Piss. It. Off.” Potter puncutated each word with what had to be random spells at this point.

Draco _hmmm’d_. He wanted to sit down. Or fall into a dead faint. Either/or. He didn’t. He took a step to the left. Then another.

Unable to get the better of the beast they’d decided to make for the rock. A little at a time while Potter distracted it with his fancy light show. It was slow going; the thestral seemed determined to herd them away from the rocks.

Whatever haunted the trees, though, got snippy whenever the thestral moved anywhere near the formation. If it wanted to protect the rocks so much, Draco wished it would come out and just take the thestral on itself. It stayed in the forest, yelling obscenities in a giant-bird dialect, probably the avian version of an old wizard yelling at the children to leave his shrubberies alone.

His ankle twinged with every step, the boot a tight corset around the aching flesh and bone. His weight sagged more and more on Potter. 

A step to his left. A step to his left. On and on and on till Potter made them stop to ward off the thestral’s interference. Then they’d start all over again.

Cold rock under his fingertips made his eyes water. Draco’s legs folded beneath him. The resulting jolt to his ankle was balanced against the releaf no longer being on his feet. The magic at his core felt like an icing bag with its contents squeezed out. Draco shouldn’t be this tired. This drained. From magic to bone he was empty.

It was dark, or he closed his eyes. Potter’s robe swished in front of him. The crackle of large moving bodies meeting stubborn magical shields filled his senses. 

Potter was saying something. Draco couldn’t make it out. He didn’t know if it was important. By then it didn’t really matter. The grass soothed his hot cheeks. Blades of it tickled his nose as he softly breathed out. In. Out.

A boot stumbled into his leg, jerking Draco back from the nice dark place he’d been heading. Pain made him open his eyes. Pain and the almost overwhelming urge to to tell Potter to get his arse off Draco’s legs. Yelling at Potter was worth being awake for. 

He didn’t see Potter when he opened his eyes. He saw the magic wall around them dissolving like paper in acid. He saw a breath of air, wet in the cold dark. He saw the stars blinking away about them.

He saw the stars vanish as something large and winged threw itself off the top of the rocks and into the space right above where the breath in the air had been two seconds ago. 

He heard the breaking of bones and impact of muscle on muscle. An agonizing cry. A cry of triumph.

Draco breathed in a sound of awe and fear. Then he blinked and didn’t open his eyes again.

Before the soft dark swallowed him whole he had almost convinced himself he’d seen a hippogryph, bathed in pale moonlight, screaming its victory to the sky.


	6. The Trees Are Just Wood

The door to the hospital wing shut with a _click_. Harry on one side, still unsure what was going on, and Malfoy and Madam Pomfrey on the other. To be fair, Madam Pomfrey had waved her wand over him, checking to make sure he had no life-threatening injuries, before pushing both him and the bottle of Pepper-Up in his hand out the room. The speed at which she had done it though, all the while barely taking an eye of Malfoy laying on a bed, was stunning. If this was one of the cartoons that Dudley used to watch every...well, _all the time_ , then he’d still be spinning around in circles. Something was spinning, that was for sure.

Pepper-Up always left his nose itching, but he took it anyway. It had been a long night and he still had to hike up to the tower. The steam had worked down to the occasional puff by the time he made the stairs. He slipped the vial into his pocket to have one of the house elves return it to Pomfrey in morning. He traced the route back to his bed by memory, barely recognizing the turns and staircases that he took. At least he could not get another detention for being out so late. He was so done with detentions. Attacked by a randy horse. It was ridiculous. Even for him.

Being rescued at the last moment by sheer luck, was perhaps a bit more normal. Not even he had been expecting a bloody hippogryph to come storming from the sky to save his and Malfoy’s skin. For a second he had a terrifyingly hopeful idea that it was Buckbeak coming to the rescue. But no. That was impossible. Just as impossible as Sirius doing anything but being painfully and horribly dead. Buckbeak had taken a chunk out of that Bella-bitch, but even that wasn’t enough to save either the hippogryph or his godfather. Both were dead. Lestrange was unfortunately still breathing, but that was about all she was doing. There were still nights where he did nothing but dream up ways to fix that. 

This hippogryph was smaller than Buckbeak; still a juvenile if Harry had to guess. Standing tall the beak didn’t make it past Harry’s head. His coloring was more red than the blue-grey he knew, though that might have been spatter from the deep scratches he had inflicted on the thestral. In the dark it was hard to tell. Skittish of Harry, for some reason, he seemed to take to Malfoy from almost the first moment. He nearly took off Harry’s head trying to get to the downed Slytherin. Harry had a horrible flashback to third year where Malfoy had pushed past him, intent on Buckbeak. Her screams of pain had quickly cooled the rush of blood to his head gained while in flight. She brought it on herself, but even he wasn’t so immune to her tears as he would have liked. That sympathy had quickly drained as the days had gone on. It vanished completely when she tried to orchestrate the hippogryphs death thru her father. Luckily for Buckbeak, and the nearly distraught Hagrid, Lucius Malfoy didn’t have the influence to waste on his daughter’s temper tantrums. 

The man had practically bankrupted himself to keep her in school last year. Harry didn’t not feel bad about that. The man was a kinda horrible person. Dumbledore had overreacted a bit, though. Harry hadn’t meant to get the Slytherin thrown out. 

Three months of detention, sure. Having her clean out every loo in the castle, absolutely. A fucking Governors’ Inquest? Merlin, what a fucking disaster.

Harry had been ready to meet a furious Slytherin on the train to Hogwarts. He had not been ready to meet Draco Malfoy. He didn’t even know who Malfoy was until someone (read: Ron) pointed it out to him. Harry’d thought that some Malfoy cousin had transferred in. Harry had cursed his bad luck to be stuck with not only his current crazy Malfoy, but two. The guy looked just as stuck up as Lynx did as well. Nose in the air, superiority practically glowing on his pasty-white skin. He had walked right past everyone on the platform like they were not there. He’d nearly bumped a first year onto the tracks when the girl didn’t get out of his way fast enough. It’d been Ron’s pinched face, that had clued him in that something else was going on. Ron leaned over to whisper in Harry’s ear and Harry’s nearly strangled “ _Fucking hell, that’s Lynx Malfoy?!_ ” had carried across the platform. On the steps of the open train carriage, Malfoy had turned, looking directly at Harry. Out of everyone, out of all the noise and the whispers and the jokes, Malfoy had only bothered to look at Harry. He didn’t smirk, he did even raise an eyebrow. He just looked and kept on looking till Parkinson had pushed past him. 

Until the fight in the corridor, they hadn’t traded so much as a word. Trading curses hadn’t been much on an improvement.

Then there had been the forest and the fighting then the working together and then the running and the _fighting together_. Malfoy’s shields wrapping around them. Having to trust the Slytherin to keep his back safe, and actually trusting it. Merlin, but that had been a trip. Probably one right around the bend. Not that he had much time to focus on the sheer absurdity of trusting a Slytherin, _the_ Slytherin. Harry had been too busy trying and failing--Merlin, that’d been a kick to the balls--to keep the thestral away. The thestral couldn’t fire curses back, but every time it charged the shield it faltered, the magic nearly scattering apart on impact. 

Malfoy had probably been right. He should have just been shooting to kill, but Harry couldn’t do it. He kept imaging Hagrid’s face when he told him what he would have done. Hagrid had an unrealistic view of the safety of certain beasts, but it was an infectious view, it seemed. The thestral hadn’t been evil. It was out of its mind. It didn’t deserve to die. When it had stumbled from the field, under the cold watch of the hippogriff, Harry had been relieved. He also knew he’d be telling Hagrid that he had an injured thestral running around the forest that needed seeing to. 

Malfoy had been more important at that moment, though. 

The boy--how long had this boy, this Draco, been hiding under Lynx?--was an unhealthy shade of white. Like runny eggs. Sweat darkened his hair to an almost normal shade of blond instead of the usual string white. Hair curled on his forehead. Harry swept it back. Malfoy’s skin warmed his palm. 

He pulled his hand back, unsure what to do next.

The mix of sticky nectar and sweat on Malfoy’s wand was unpleasant, but Harry’s was no better. And having to clean a wand was better than having to reattach limbs. The wand slipped easily back into the holster strapped to Malfoy’s left arm. If he tried to get it back out, Harry had the feeling he’d get a nasty surprise. Malfoys seemed like the kind wizards that guarded their wands jealousy.

Harry had pushed his way off the ground, one hand pressed up against the cool granite rock face. Draco had it worse, but Harry was embarrassed to find that the fight had taken a bit more out of him than the practice duels in Defense. 

He pulled his wand from his pocket, about to point it to the sky and summon help--he should have done that ages ago, he knew--when the heavy body of the hippogryph bumped into him. It wasn’t an attack, more of a sudden desire to be where Harry was standing, while Harry was still standing there. It knocked him on his ass all the same. 

Harry heard a wet _slurp_. 

Well, that wasn’t good. Probably.

He cast a _lumos_ , glaring it brighter when it didn’t want to do more than spark. He wasn’t that tired. A light spell was nothing. 

The hippogryph was bent over Malfoy, his tongue, long and wet, trailing its way from the bottom of Malfoy’s neck to the top of his head. When that was clean to its satisfaction it moved onto his hands, and any part of his arms he could reach under Malfoy’s clothes. Every once and awhile he would turn his head and cluck disapprovingly at Malfoy. 

Harry giggled. Just once. Just a little.

The hippogryph looked over at him, beak clicking.

Harry stopped laughing. 

_How was this his life? Being bossed about by giant bird-horses and having midnight duels with oversexed thestrals--did this happen to all wizards or was it just him?_

The hippogryph took a bit of Malfoy’s robes and jerked. Malfoy moaned, low. It did it again. Malfoy, eyes still closed, lifted his hand waving away something in the air. He missed the hippogryph by like two feet. He also did a great job of smacking himself in the face when he dropped his hand, but Harry knew better than to laugh. Out loud. He didn’t need to be schooled by Momma Hippogryph again.

He lost it though when the hippogryph, overjoyed it seemed that Malfoy was awake, turned its head and covered Malfoy’s face in an eager lick just as Malfoy opened his eyes and _screamed_. The hippogryph was too busy bathing Malfoy to rebuke him. Malfoy was too busy freaking the fuck out to curse him. 

Harry fell back to the ground, laughing loudly up into the sky. 

 

The seventh-year boy’s dorm was quiet when Harry finally made his way thru the portrait and up the dorm staircase. Ron’s and Harry’s were the only bed-shades still open, the rest of the beds closed up and presumably held sleeping Gryffindors well on their way to sleep. Ron was in bed, but still awake. He nodded at Harry, looking him over for any new injuries, and then reached up to release the cords. It wasn’t really cold enough to warrant closing the bed off at night, yet, but they were boys and well, sometimes things happened in the night that you weren’t quite eager to share with five other mates. Well, Seamus might, but he been kindly asked (held at wand-point) to keep his public wanking to a minimum. 

Harry was probably more disappointed than Seamus. It wasn’t like the guy was pulling it out in the middle of the commons, anyways. A little midnight wand-waxing was hardly the most shocking thing the boy had done. And Harry--though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, Ron being the tip top of the list--liked the way Seamus’s voice got all scratchy near the end. 

He wasn’t about to say that out loud, though, so he stood at the back of the group when Seamus’s nocturnal play time was put to a full and definite halt. At least when the curtains were up.

If he sometimes forgot the silencing charm, well. Harry wasn’t going to complain. 

Harry left his robes and clothes piled at the foot of his bed. The robes were gonna be good for nothing but rags, but the house elves might salvage the rest. His shoes were...well, his shoes were the reason he was glad he was no longer a scared little boy trapped under his Uncle's thumb and his Aunt’s broom. All that he’d spent on them meant that the charms had held true. They hadn’t gotten even a scratch. The mud had crumbled off on his way up the stairs.

The bed was so soft it was almost painful at first. His back ached from helping Malfoy back to the castle. His legs from the run thru the forest. At the core of him, his magic was sore like a muscle that ached from the first real test of endurance. He smiled at the feeling. Hands pressing flat against the headboard, he stretched out and sighed back into the soft sheets. 

He pulled a pillow down to hold against his chest as he turned to his side. Skin still sensitive from the quick shower he had taken right before coming to bed made the slow rub of cotton on his nipples breath-catching. He had been tired, sleep had been his only goal, but… He rubbed again, the edge of the pillow catching the rising interest in his cock. He...he could do this. 

The next time he rocked into the pillow it was more deliberate, turning to bare down on the soft mass below him. Mouth open, he moaned into the blanket twisted beneath his crooked arm. He had always been so quick to get so hot and hard. It was mortifying at times, to be caught almost off-guard by how suddenly the crazy itchy ache would take him over. At other times...he loved it. Loved being swept away from every stupid thought and expectation. The only thing that mattered was his next breath, his next sweet push into his spit-soaked hand.

Bracing with his left arm, he lifted up enough to fit his right hand over his erection. He shuddered at the dry scrape of his quidditch calluses over the head. He could only do it a few more time before it became too much. The salty taste of his palm made him grateful that he’d washed up earlier. A faint hint of pre-come under the sweat and skin of his fingers made him try to bury his cock into the pillow. His hand was better than the pillow though.

_Merlin, so better_. Wet and hot. If he closed his eyes it was almost as good as he imagined any cunt would be. He slammed his hips forward with that thought. With teeth clamped around his left forearm he groaned. He should get his wand. He should throw up a silencing spell. Harry’d be able to be as loud as he wanted then. But…

But he loved the idea that if he wasn’t quiet, if he wasn’t good, they would know. Know just how dirty he was. How much he wanted it. God, just the thought of all of them being awoken to the sound of his horny little cries…

He would have to be so quiet. So good.

Tears were peaking out the edges of his eyes when he found a perfect speed for the roll of his hips. The pillow kept scrunching up, though, and ruining it. He hiked his right leg up, bending his left knee a little so his hand was trapped in the soft pressure, each time he dropped down he gripped the skin beneath his teeth a little harder. Drool slicked his skin. 

It was almost enough, but not...but not…

Harry moaned in frustration. He just wanted to come. He was being so good… If Draco was here, he’d let Harry come. He’d hold Harry close with his legs as Harry slammed so hungrily into that tight wet cunt. Draco would tell him that he was doing so good, that he’d never been fucked like he’s been by Harry. 

Harry would want to make sure though. He’d want to show just how good he could be to Draco. 

The sound of Draco’s cry when Harry bent down and took Draco’s cock into his mouth was delicious. As was the twin hands twining in his hair, jerking him down further on the hard length of it, the head pushing without asking into Harry’s throat. Taking him. Making him take it. Fucking into Draco as Draco fucked him mercilessly in the face. Making sure Harry gave him everything. 

Harry would give Draco anything he wanted as long as he never stopped squeezing him with his greedy cunt and choking him on his cock. He’d give anything to hear Draco’s clipped voice tell him to take it, _take it like a good b--_

The orgasm slammed into him sideways, coming out of nowhere. He wanted to hold it off, just a little while, just a second, but there was no stopping his body seizing around him as his cock pushed wetly into this tight fist. Again. Again. Again till he didn't have the energy to hold his body up any longer.

He breathed into his arm, his jaw aching from being pressed so forcefully over the bone and muscle. When he lifted his head away he could see the start of a bruise under the spit-matted hair. He dropped his head onto the pillow, spent entirely. 

That had been...unexpected. Not the Malfoy part, unfortunately. Lynx Malfoy had been a regular feature in his wank fantasies for years. But the other bit. Yeah, not normal. It couldn’t be normal or good. But dear Merlin, he had never come so suddenly before. 

It was a good thing none of the other guys in the dorm were all that good at Legilimency (especially since he was utter crap at Occlumency). Some things you really don’t want to know. Happily taking a Malfoy’s cock had to be up near the top. Right under his hungry need to be told he was a good boy while doing it. 

Harry had the gut tightening feeling that it wasn’t going to be the last time he had that particular fantasy, either.

Oh, he was so screwed. So fucking screwed.


	7. An Apple a Day

The hospital wing was by virtue of its very nature the most calm and the least calming place in the whole of Hogwarts. Pomfrey ruled the set of rooms with an iron will and a caring demeanor. After years of being in charge of the continued health and wellbeing of countless school children, she had no doubt seen almost everything that a child could do to himself given enough free will and even more bad luck. Draco’s sprained ankle and general magical depletion was nothing to what must have walked (or been carried) thru those doors. 

The pain didn’t diminish a wit with that knowledge. Determinedly it stuck around and made sure that Draco was well aware of every move he made wrong ( _any_ ) was thoroughly and completely rewarded. 

Still, the beds were nice. Comfy. Smelled of clean things like water and soap and not-flowers. Draco considered never leaving his appointed bed ever again. He could have someone come bring him his assignments and his food every day, and just laze around. Sounded like bliss.

Sadly, Madam Pomfrey seemed to be of the opinion that her beds were for emergencies only. A longing to not set foot in the real world unless pulled by wild thes---

Well. Draco wasn’t actually in any rush to ever see (or not see) a thestral again. Hopefully it was a sentiment much returned.

The clinking of various vials could be barely be heard from Draco’s bed, but Pomfrey’s muttering was more than enough to signal to Draco that the matron was less than happy. He winced. He hadn’t set out to make her life difficult but the fact was his condition-- _not_ the one in his foot, sadly-- had everything to do with her frustration. Certain things about this year were bound to be difficult, but he had hoped--probably a bit foolishly--that this particular aspect of his change wouldn’t come up too often. If at all.

Really, after six years at Hogwarts, that was the beyond ridiculous. He was lucky he was only suffering a sprain and hadn't had his leg blown off by an errant curse. That’d make his life even more difficult. Malfoys were not the kind of people who could pull off peg legs.

Pomfrey finally swept into the room, holding a glass of water and a small dusty box. Draco sat up carefully, shoving a pillow down behind his back.

“You, Mr. Malfoy, should know better than to go gallivanting off into the forest.” She thrust the glass of water into his hands, making sure he had a good grip before letting go. 

Draco wisely didn’t point out that it wasn’t his idea to be in the forest in the first place.

Pomfrey flicked her wand at a chair against the wall; it shook itself as if waking from a long sleep before scrambling over to her. She sat. Draco sat there holding the glass, unsure if he was supposed to drink it or what. Though now that it was three inches from his face, his mouth did feel awfully dry. He took a sip, then a bigger gulp. He stopped when the water was halfway down the glass. 

He looked over to find Pomfrey studying him. Not in a bad way, and not in her usual ‘why has this student suddenly turned puce’ kind of way either. It was just...looking. Like she was trying to understand something, not study it or cure it. Draco set the glass down in his lap, his fingers tapping against the glass nervously.

“You were instructed, I assume,” she asked, “ _fully_ on the limitations you would face while taking your potion course?”

There was a hint of annoyance in her voice, though Draco had a feeling it had nothing to do what he did and everything to do with who he went to to do it. She never showed any of the standard dislike of Slytherin or of its Head, but she also had the common view that when undertaking magical medical care it should be overseen by a trained medical professional--not just some random potions master. Or so Snape had assured him when Draco had left the infirmary after the first night back. Her cool tone at seeing him that first day had not inspired hope, though Snape’s words had at least assured him that she was a safe harbor, if he ever needed to talk and Snape himself was not available. 

Draco nodded--then added “Yes, ma’am,” when that did not seem to satisfy.

“So you are aware, then, that a very large portion of my potion stores are currently unavailable for your use? Including nearly all my pain-relieving potions,Skelegro, and every single one of my blood replenishing potions?” Pomfrey leaned forward. “To be frank, Mr. Malfoy, if you were to come in here with more than papercut, it is very likely the best I have to offer you is a pat on the head and a warm glass of milk.”

He looked down at the glass in his hands. The ripples in the water were nearly frantic from his tapping. Taking a deep breath he tried to find the calm bred into him from birth. This wasn’t news to him. Snape had been very thorough in explaining every single drawback, side effect, and consequence of the potions he would be taking. Then he had come back the next night and done it all again. By the time Snape was done with him, Draco could recite the lecture backwards and forwards and upside down. He would have resented it more if he didn’t know that it was absolutely vital for him to know every bit of it.

One of the biggest points on Snape’s Lecture of Disastrous Things That Could Befall You, was the fact that once he took the first potion, and as he carried on taking the next four after, he would not be able to consume any potion likely to interfere with the magic already working on his system. Not for the whole year. 

“As you can imagine that leaves me with a bit of a conundrum. The magic in most common and uncommon potions is likely to react very badly with the potions already in your system. In fact, the more of the five potions you complete taking, the larger the backlash in magic could be. There are a few spells I can cast, but those are very short lived, and won’t have nearly the impact a potion would. You do understand what I am saying?”

“I better start enjoying the taste of milk?” he quipped.

Pomfrey frowned. “This is not the time, Mr. Malfoy.”

He saw her lips twitch, though, when he went to take another drink of water. She took the glass from him when he emptied it, setting it on a low table by the bed. When she turned back to him she held out a box. It was nothing special: the white wood was smooth, and the lid was shut with a small brass latch. It had no design and was no bigger than the palm of his hand. He flipped the latch with a smooth glide of his finger, then lifted the lid. Draco felt the slight twitch of magic--probably a stasis charm, by the feel of it. Inside was something that looked like, but didn’t smell like any tea he knew.

“Willow bark,” Pomfrey said. “There’s no magic in it, but it should help with minor pains. I’ve instructed the house elves on how to make you a tea from it. Can’t say it is pleasant tasting, but most potions aren’t. Have them add some honey and maybe some cinnamon. It should help.” 

Draco closed the lid. “Thank you.”

He meant it. Even without the busted ankle his body was constantly aching. Something, _anything_ , to help relieve that would be a blessing. He wondered why Snape hadn’t thought of it. Unless…”You're sure this won’t…” He waved his hand vaguely over his body. Draco didn’t want to doubt her word, but he had to be careful and Snape said there wasn’t much he could do.

When he said as much to Pomfrey she sniffed. “It is safe, I assure you. I do know what I am talking about. And while Professor Snape is a Master at Potions, _I_ am a fully trained healer. I trust that my knowledge in this subject is a bit more advanced than his.”

Not sure what to say to that, he nodded and closed the box, careful to not lose a single shred of the Willow bark. He slipped it into his pocket for safekeeping.

“That is the last of my supply, it is not exactly something in demand around here, but I’m sure Professor Snape will have no problem procuring more once you run out.” She ran her hands over her robes as she stood. “As for your foot…”

Pomfrey waved her wand, and Draco watched as a bandage came bouncing merrily out of a cupboard and unraveled in the air around his foot. Lifting his leg off the pillow it was resting on, she instructed the bandage to wrap around his ankle. With a soft tap of her wand the bandage tightened briefly and settled. 

“Luckily for you it is not broken. This should take a week or two--yes, Mr. Malfoy, _that long_ \--to clear up. Though I will want you back in a couple of days to make sure you are not overdoing it. It should be fine to walk on-- _with care_ , if you please--but you can also use a cane if the pain gets to be a bit much.”

Draco slumped back down onto the bed, exhausted just at the thought of weeks like this.

Pomfrey looked down at him. “Since this school is made up almost entirely of stairs--” Draco groaned, “--I will of course advise your teachers that some delay may take place as you go from class to class.”

He rolled his eyes, though only after closing his eyelids (he didn’t need Pomfrey thinking of new ways to torture him). Draco could imagine just how accommodating his Professors were going to be. It didn’t take much imagination either, since it was such a small amount. 

“As for the magic depletion,” she continued, “a good night’s sleep should fix you right up. You may get drained easier than most this year, but you also have the benefit of the potion accelerating your repletion cycle. I’d advise not to challenge any trolls to a duel in the near future though.”

With that she helped him out of the bed, making sure that his ankle was up to holding him, before guiding him over to the door. Draco winced when he put pressure on his ankle, but the wrap around it seemed to be taking the brunt of the weight. He’d make it down to the dungeons fine, though it wouldn’t be fun. 

Draco was about to head out the door when Pomfrey laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked over at her, startled to see her looking at him pensively, a small corner of her lip caught between her teeth. “Um, Madam--”

“Mr. Mal-- _Draco_ ,” she interrupted. “While I trust that your fellow students are not the kind of people to maliciously attack another student--”

Draco snorted. She ignored it.

“I do hope that Professor Snape warned you that some potions are very easy to conceal in food. And while I hope this does not become an issue since the exact limitations of the potions are not widespread knowledge, some students might feel it is nothing more than just another school-prank. If you were to consume it, though, it could become life-threatening very quickly. And, and really there is a reason that most of...most people wait till _after > schooling is completed to undertake this potion course. If you had come to me I really would have advised you to wait. Children are not the most levelheaded and I…. Well, it doesn’t matter. What is done is done.”_

Draco had never seen her so discombobulated before. 

She gathered herself together quickly, losing the agitated twitch of her fingers and smoothing her hands down her uniform. “You should be careful, that is all.”

Draco nodded, then looked down at the silver ring on his right forefinger. He ran his thumb over the snake engraving along the side. “Snape took care of it. But thanks.”

She looked down at his hand, and smiled thinly. “Good. That’s good. Now, off to bed with you. It’s late enough already.”

He thanked her again then made his way, limping, down the hall.


	8. Tea, Tickets, and Terrycloth

Not needing to be anywhere in particular for the rest of the weekend, Draco stayed close to the Slytherin commons room. With a bit of sweet-talking and bribes (mostly bribes) he managed to get his meals delivered to Slytherin by either an amenable house elf, or a bidable firstie. The one time he asked Pansy she threw a shoe at his head. He didn’t ask again, but kept the shoe. She liked them, and if she was going to hand him a bargaining stone for free, who was he quibble just because of how he got it. 

Monday came around, like is usually does, with much regret. His time as house-bound hermit served as an excellent opportunity to get his assignments done, not to mention plenty of time to play up his wounded-Slytherin role to garner sympathy and support from his fellow housemates. After all, this was Hogwarts, and any injury that left a student still injured days after the event must have been very grave indeed. Still, Mondays meant classes, and classes meant stairs and students not predisposed to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

In exchange for her shoe, Draco was able to get Pansy to transfigure a spare quill into a cane. The sleek black wood with silver snake cap wasn’t all that necessary for his health, but after the third time he found himself admiring his reflection with the cane braced causally under his hand, he had to admit that it gave him a certain suave air. He could also poke people with it. It was great.

After the third pair of dirty socks came sailing thru the shimmering barrier, he gave up admiring his reflection and slung his book bag over his shoulders to go meet Pansy and the others heading up to breakfast. 

The walk up from the dungeon was--predictably--longer than normal, but the Great Hall was still mostly empty by the time their small group of Slytherins walked into the room. Without his permission his eyes were drawn to the Gryffindor table. Potter was not there--not that Draco wanted him to be--but a girl was. She was slumped over the table, a book propped up against a bowl and her nose almost brushing the pages. If he hadn’t seen her just turn the page he would have sworn she was asleep. Draco didn’t have many classes with her, but she always struck him as an odd fit for Gryffindor. Too booky. And she never seemed to have anyone around her. Not even her fellow housemates. 

And he had no idea why he was even noticing her now.

He was picking up his juice, making sure that Snape’s ring was in contact with the goblet, when Potter and Weasley stumbled into the Great Hall. Pushing at each other and laughing, they looked none the worse for wear from their collective trip to the forest on Friday. In fact, for a Monday morning they were disgustingly chipper. Draco imagined sending a buttered piece of toast sailing at them from across their tables, and the look on the Weasel’s face when it splattered on his poxy cheek. 

A hand smacked into his forehead. 

“Pans, what the fuck?” He glared over at his best friend. She was still trying to rest the back of her hand against his skin. Draco jabbed at her with a fork every time she got close. 

“You are smiling. At _Gryffindors _. I thought you might be dying.”__

“The only one who will be dying here is the nosey bitch who can’t keep her mitts to herself.”

“Draco, really, it is not nice to issue death threats to people not in the room. You could at least wait till Millie comes up to eat.”

_Bitch_. Draco reached over, grabbed one of the sausages off her plate, and stuck it in his mouth, making sure to get it nice and wet. He then pulled it out of his mouth and dropped it casually in the middle of her mostly uneaten breakfast. “ _Bon appetit_.” 

He smiled widely at her look of blank astonishment.

“Harry. Harry. That’s enough-- _Harry!_ \--”

Draco swung around to see Ronald Weasley jerk his plate away from Potter who was sitting next to him, carafe of syrup spilling out liquid all over where his friend’s plate used to be and now where a large puddle of sticky maple topping gathered. Potter mopped at the mess ineffectually, his gaze darting up and over to where Draco was sitting every few seconds. Draco glanced down at the sausage, up at Potter, then down at the sausage again. A wicked smile threatened to break out across his lips. Knowing he should not--he most assuredly _should not_ \--Draco still let a little of it show through as he winked at the Gryffindor. 

He then swung around and promptly tried to drown himself with his juice. 

Over the rim of the cup he saw unfortunate awareness flicker thru his friend’s eyes. 

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” Pansy whispered. Her nose crinkled up slightly. “ _Oh, Draco_. I thought we handled this last year. If you insist on going so... _down market_ , you really should let me set you up up with something a bit less... _that_.” She wiped her nose delicately. “I think my father’s friend, the barrister, you know, has an assistant that is a bit scruffy around the edges. And those kind of people know the value of keeping one’s mouth shut. Or, at least full.”

He rolled his eyes. “I have no interest in your barrister.”

“Merlin, no one has an interest in my father’s barrister. The man is two centuries if he is a day. Has a nasty habit of patting me on the head like a pet spaniel. Named Gilda.”

“He calls you Gilda?”

“No, idiot. That is what he would call the spaniel, if he had one. I just know it. He has a certain look in his eyes.”

“There’s a look---wait, what am I saying.” How did he get stuck in these kinds of conversations? “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know what we were talking about.”

Though he was going to have nightmares about being turned into a spaniel named Gilda, he just knew it. That was what happened when you were friends with Pansy. She made you see things. Horrible, horrible, absolutely nonsensical things. 

He didn’t even like dogs.

“You shagging the barrister’s assistant so that you can get your bit of roughage without disgracing our House and at least 10 generations of Malfoys in one go.”

“I don’t want to shag anyone!”

And, well.

That was a lie. 

Also, a _bit_ too loud. 

Without looking around to see all the people looking at him--because they were, he’d bet on it--Draco stood up from the table. “I’m going now. You’re staying here with your--I don’t know--and I’m going. Now. Away.”

And he went.

Unfortunately he forgot about his foot for all of one second and nearly ended up breaking his nose on the bench when his foot didn’t clear it with his normal dexterity.

On the bright side? No one was likely going to be gossiping about his sex change for a while.

****

Draco made his way down an unused corridor, his cane hitting the stone floor harder with each step. The day had been as horrendous as he had predicted. Now, with classes done and nowhere to go for the next few hours, Dracon intended to make a break for it. _After_ he got another dose of Pomfrey’s tea. He slipped into an empty classroom, just as the echoes of footsteps came from behind him. He waited to see if anyone would try to follow him into the room, but either they hadn’t seen him, or didn’t care. 

Dropping his bookbag by the nearest desk--his cane clattered somewhere next to it--he slumped into a dusty chair. He sneezed. Twice. Producing a handkerchief from inside his robes he wiped his nose, his face, and then tried to wipe down the desktop as much as possible. He left the used cloth at the farthest corner of the desk from where he was sitting.

_Now what was that blasted house elves’ name?_

Something like Twisted. Or Twizzler. Twinky?

No, Twizzy. Gods, what a name.

“Twizzy!” Draco whined. Manly. His voice only broke once.

A house elf popped into existence at his right elbow. She held a tea cup and saucer so large it took her both hands to keep it steady. Draco took the tea with a grateful sigh and a nod of thanks at the house elf.

“-anks,” he said, blowing over the rim of the cup. Ripples played over the surface of the orangish-red liquid, and the spicy scent of cinnamon and honey mixed with the earthy Willow bark filled his nose. It had taken a few tries to get the right mixture to make it palatable (mostly involving ever increasing doses of honey) but now it was almost tolerable. And despite his misgivings, it actually did wonders for the aching in his joints and from his ankle. All those months of constant nagging soreness and all it took was a couple cups of tea to solve his problems.

How very British.

Halfway thru his cuppa he looked over at Twizzy. Draco didn’t know what to make of her. She wasn’t like any other house elf he’d ever met. Well, she looked like just about every house elf he’d ever met--all floppy ears and giant sheened eyes--but she certainly didn’t act it. She hadn’t said more than five words to him in the last couple days since they met (‘Is Twizzy, sir. Has tea.’) but she never stood still long. During that first day she’d practically catalogued the whole of his part of the room. Not straightening or cleaning so much as a grain dust of it--but touching everything. Like she was studying it all, cataloging every half-written essay and forgotten candy wrapper. Draco wondered if she got out the kitchens (or wherever she worked) very often. His little corner of the girls dormitory seemed to fascinate her. 

Dobby had been nearly manic the whole time Draco had known him. It was exhausting to be in a room with him for more than ten minutes. Twizzy was the opposite, for some reason. She was in Draco’s stuff, without permission, moving constantly, and yet...he couldn’t seem to mind. The way she smiled, shyly, every time she came across something--he assumed--she had never seen before, made Draco want to smile back. 

Right then she was sitting under a neighboring desk, tracing something along the underside of the tabletop with her fingers. If he didn’t think that getting up would present several issues, he’d climb down there to see whatever it was that had her fascinated. He’d bet all his pocket money that is was something rude. It always was.

It didn’t take long to finish off the tea. Without any excuse to linger in a long-unused classroom he handed the cup and saucer back to Twizzy. She handed him his cane, which was rather nice of her. He smiled and said, “Thanks, Twiz.”

As expected, she didn’t say anything, though she did bob a little curtsey before popping off to wherever it was that she needed to pop off to. 

His ankle was still sore--the tea being nowhere near as efficient as a potion--but he could bear it out till the pain started to leach away. And if he was lucky, maybe the stairs would actually work in his favor just this once.

****

He wasn’t. They didn’t. 

****

“What’s innit for me?” Atticus Fletchley said, eyeing the envelope in Draco’s hand. They were off in a small corner of the common room, but they still kept their voices down low. Deals being brokered were best kept secret till completion. And sometimes even afterwards.

Draco held out the envelope. “Two tickets. Second row. Their winter concert has been sold out for nearly six months. You won’t find anything better”

“An’ all I gotta do is put in a good word with Fiona, for you?”

“That and get her to talk to Pansy, and they’re all yours, mate.”

Atticus licked his lips, hesitating. “You know, she’s really not a big fan of yours--”

“But she is a massive fan of the Weird Sisters,” Draco interjected. And if anything was gonna win a trip into her knickers, it would be two tickets to see a sold out show of her favorite band. But he didn’t need to say that. 

Atticus seemed to agree. He reached out for the envelope.

Draco didn’t let go. “Deal?”

Atticus nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Deal.” 

Draco smiled and let go of the envelope. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fletchley.”

Atticus just raised an eyebrow and slipped the tickets into his robes. “Sure, mate. I gotta go. Fiona wanted to study together in the library before everyone gets kicked out.”

_Studying. Sure._

Eh. If they wanted to spend more time studying the insides of each other’s mouths than their books, who was he to criticize? Draco waved him off. “Go. Have fun.”

Draco watched him walk off, letting his shoulders relax a bit. He shouldn’t have doubted Pansy. Of course the guy was going to take the tickets. Who wouldn’t? And it might not change his girlfriend's mind all that much, but it was a start. Fiona was very popular among the fifth year girls, and getting her to think of Draco in a more favorable light would go a long way in loosening up support in that quarter. Draco was going to end up owing Pansy forever though, since she was the one who owned the tickets in the first place. Sure, she had more--her grandfather had gifted her a half-dozen at her coming of age celebration--but still. Two tickets to one of the Weird Sister’s most anticipated shows all year did not come cheap. 

Pansy was not the type of person to let him forget it. Her idea or not.

By the time he had worked his way thru his Potions essay the commons had emptied itself out. He and Turner had played a few rounds of wizard’s chess earlier--neither of them were all that good, so it was more about who could lose in the most entertaining way possible--before the fellow Slytherin had decided to call it a night. Draco would hardly call them friends, but ever since their forest detention (Turner’s being much less terrifying, of course) they had talked a few times. Turner wasn’t all bad, if a bit on the odd side. Draco hadn’t quite figured out what was up with the no-bathing thing, but as soon as he figured out a way to ask without destroying the work he had already done, he’d find out. And well, it wasn’t too big of a rush at this moment. He had time to plan.

The fire had burned down to almost nothing by that point, but the large lake-windows still lit Draco’s half of the room in constantly wavering green light. Popular theory held that there was something in the glass to light the water near the commons, since it was unlikely the sun would penetrate that far down in the murky water...even if it was still daylight. Which it wasn’t. However it was pulled off, Draco enjoyed it as one of the few perks of having to live underground 3/4 of the year. 

Draco still remember spending most of his first year at Hogwarts terrified he was going to accidently say the secret “Magic Word” and cause the whole window to collapse in on him and drown the rest of his house. Gullible little sod, he was back then. Most firsties were. It made for great sport.

He was going to miss it when he was gone. Some of it. Or most. He wasn’t sure. 

Six years and then another and Hogwarts would be over like a witches kiss. Strange to think about, really. Nearly every part of his life up to this point had been about Hogwarts. Preparing for it, worrying about it, trying to pass classes, trying to do...whatever it was they were supposed to do so that thirty years on they’d have something to talk about over whiskey at the club.

While he had reached his majority months ago, he didn’t feel like an adult. Not yet. But soon...soon he wouldn’t have much of a choice in the matter. With diploma in hand, a pat on the back, and a boot to his ass, he’d be thrown out into the real world. Welcome to the rest of your life, Draco Malfoy, do try to not balls it up!

Leaving those depressing thoughts down in the chair to keep the lake company, Draco made his way up the stairs to his room. Most of the curtains on the beds were closed, but he could still see a light coming out thru the cracks on Millie’s bed curtains. He stepped lightly past her bed. Shaking off the static shivers that accompanied his walk thru the lightly shimmering magic around his bed, he stashed his book bag and school stuff in his trunk, pulling out his night clothes and shower supplies at the same time. It was late enough that the bathroom should be free and if he kept in quick no one would throw a fit about him locking the rest of the girls out of the facilities. 

With a shoulder pressed up against the wood Draco turned the handle to the door leading to the girl’s washroom. The door opened a half inch but then stuck. Draco shoved his shoulder harder into the door. The wood shuddered and slipped open enough for Draco to squeeze by. When he’d just barely cleared the opening the door clanged shut. Draco’s towel was still pinned between the door and frame. A hard yank and it was free. He glared at the door.

Fucking Dumbledore.

It was just like him to force Draco to use the girl’s washroom and not take off the protections in place to keep the boys out. Every time he came in here, Draco had to either get someone else to open the door or nearly dislocate his shoulder forcing it open. And it was getting worse as well. Some day soon he’d be locked out completely and Merlin only knew how he was going to be able to take a shower. 

Until he was sure that no one in Slytherin would rat him out to the Headmaster he couldn’t use the boy’s washroom either. 

The restrooms outside the dorms weren’t as strongly protected, but they had the drawback of being open to all the houses and Draco had been made well aware of how the female population of Hogwarts felt about his use of them (no one’s toilet could ‘accidentally’ overflow that many times). Even the ones that had no problem calling him a girl behind his back (or too his face, for that matter) were quick with hexes when he wandered into a restroom already in use. 

He’d got very good at holding things in.

If Draco ever did decide to turn into a murderous Dark Lord, though, he had enough names on his List to keep him going for years.

He dropped his towel and clothes onto the shelf by his shower stall. This one had a screen much like the one around his bed. It didn’t make thing much more comfortable for anyone, but it was something at least. The best Snape could do in a hard situation. The Headmaster had been opposed to even this much privacy granted to Draco. Draco was convinced the man wanted to shame and embarrass him enough that he’d give up the whole thing or drop out entirely. 

Draco would eat that thrice damned Sorting Hat before he gave into the bastard.

He got the best shower all to himself, though. He wasn’t going to complain much about that.

Either because they were next to the lake or Slytherin’s were not going to put up with inferior plumbing, there was always a lovely amount of hot water in their washrooms. _This_ stall had two heads and they were set to fall down directly like a rainfall on the student below them. Draco hissed as the hot water first fell on his skin, but as it beat down on his aching body he nearly melted in relief. It’d be better to fully soak his ankle, but this would have to do. Muscles tense from holding himself in compensation for his foot started relax. All in all it was as close to normal he’d felt in a while.

Bypassing the cleaning supplies available standard in all the stalls, Draco reached for his own private collection of bathing gels and cremes. He’d had to forgo his favorite brands since they had too much magic mixed into them, but just because he couldn’t have _the best_ didn’t mean he’d settle for the piss-poor standard fare offered by the school. Malfoys did not have flaky and cracked skin.

_Unless they were stuck in prison for nearly eight years_ , a dark part of him whispered. Draco ignored that ugly truth. Like he’d done many times since his father had come home. That was over. Done. Dwelling on it would not make it any better.

He dobbed a small amount of cleaners on a flannel, rubbing it into the cloth lightly. He washed his face first then rinsed out the rag and grabbed another container to add to the cloth. He then moved onto his neck and shoulders. 

Neither of those had changed all that much over the last few months. His shoulders were still a bit too narrow, and unless he bent his head so far back in was liable to pop off, he couldn’t see an Adam’s Apple. His face was still too round for his liking as well. He knew it would take time--nearly an entire year--before he was fully transitioned from Lynx to Draco but he hated not being there, all there, right then.

_At least my damned tits are gone_ , he thought comfortingly as he rubbed down his chest. Binding was not fun or comfortable. Draco would probably still be binding if he had larger breasts since the first potion didn’t affect them the way it did other parts, but he never boasted much in the area. Even if he learned to use them. Damn useful, the blasted things.

Still, they were gone and he was glad. Whatever softness he had left would be replaced by harder muscle in a a couple weeks anyway. Which would hopefully narrow his waist even more. The bone underneath--and gods did he still feel like cringing when he remember _that_ being changed--had reshaped to a more narrow masculine version, but the flesh along it had stubbornly clung on. If the potions didn’t take care of it soon he was probably going to have to do something drastic...like exercising. Merlin forbid.

He skipped over his privates--not quite ready to deal with _that_ yet--and moved down to his legs; the small ledge on the side of the stall making it easy for him to clean them without having to bend all the way down. Well, until he realized that standing with all his weight on his sore ankle was probably not his best idea. Cursing unnamed healers who couldn’t be bothered to invent a healing potion that would not kill him, Draco braced his body against the side wall and waited till the pain went down. 

“Fucking short-wanded fucking arseholes.” He drew in a wet breath. “Bloody fucking fuck.”

Draco was so done with this muggle healing shit.

The pain didn’t last for long. He could stand on it at least. Carefully. He bent over, washing as quickly as possible. Which only left him with…

“We meet again,” he said. Then immediately blushed because there he was talking to his cock and that was not something he ever wanted to be caught doing. Next thing you know he’d be naming the damn thing and having whole conversations with it. That'd be simply beyond the pale.

Not to mention that the only nickname he could think of to call it right then was “Tiny.” 

Because it was.

Not even the length of his thumb.

If there was one reason--and really the thought of being grateful to the old goat for anything was physically painful--he was glad he wasn’t sharing shower space with the male half of the population quite yet, it was currently affixed between his legs. He didn’t need to be living in the boy dorms to know what kind of talk guys usually got up to. This was the last type of talk he wanted circulating about himself. 

It would get better. _It_ would get _bigger_. He just hoped he could figure out how to pee with the damn thing before it got too out of hand.

While the thing was useless for anything but urinating, he still felt weird touching it. The new sensations--how were people supposed to get used to a whole new body part?--made his spine squirmy. Not to mention that he still had most of his girl parts tucked in behind his cock. The whole thing made him feel awkward and half-finished. What he could ignore the ignored, but cleaning wasn’t something he could just forgo because he got ghost-tracks every time he had to deal with his penis/vagina combo.

He was more than looking forward to having this part of his anatomy dealt with. The Autumnal Equinox couldn’t come too quick, to his thinking.

With his body finally clean he did a quick wash and rinse of his hair, then grabbed for the towel outside his stall. When his hand came up empty a cold shiver creeped up his spine. Reading for his wand--he always kept it close these days--he ducked his head out of the shower stall, looking around quickly. There was no one there. There was also no towel. Not on the shelf with his clothes--which were thankfully still there--and not on the floor.

Dripping wet, he carefully stepped out of the shower. With a raised wand he checked the entire washroom, casting revealing charms on every flickering shadow. No one. No towel. Just a shivering, soggy, Slytherin with a growing paranoia complex. Draco checked the door. Locked...with a bit of white cloth the shade of his towel still stuck in the frame.

So much for the ‘I totally dreamed up taking the towel with me to the shower’ theory he was so carefully nursing into flaccid health.

Unable to find a reason, or a towel, Draco used his clean sleep shirt to pat himself dry. He kept his back to the wall and his wand in his hand. He didn’t care how hard it made to dress afterwards. He wasn’t putting it down till he was within the protection of his own highly-charmed bed. Once he had his pants on, he bundled up his used clothes and he small supply of washing agents all into one big ball and shoved it under his free arm. It was a bit unwieldy, but it left his wand hand free. Which was more important. 

The door opened smoothly when he disengaged the lock and placed his hand against the handle and pulled. He did not watch the piece of towel flutter to the floor. He kept his head up and his wand ready. He only had to go down a short hall, and up a small flight up stairs to get to the seventh year girl’s room, but he did not let his guard down. With his back against the wall he edged sideways down the hall. He spun his wand checking for unseen magical traps. There were none. Just the occasional tattered spell remnants from long diffused charms and hexes. 

He was shaking by the time he got to the room.

_He was wet. It was cold in the dorms. It’s just the cold._

It was dark when he got inside. He could hear someone snoring, softly, and the rustle of someone else shifting under the covers. He closed the door behind him, setting up a small alarm charm that would buzz his wand if someone opened it.

Draco heart hammered the closer he got to his bed. Each step seemed to take longer than the next. The magic curtain obscured nearly everything from this side, becoming nothing more than a wall of fog and starlight. He held his breath as he breached the outside…

And nearly stumbled back out when he got across and saw, just next to the outer limit of his protection charms, a towel. His towel. White and folded, and near the bottom...just a little tattered from where he had pulled it out from the door jam.


End file.
